shade of grey matter
by Her Name Is Erika
Summary: Dana Cruz likes to see her world in simple black and white. DanaLogan. DanaMichael friendship. DanaChase. For Presley.
1. a family in crisis that only grows older

I wait for the postman to bring me a letter  
And wait for the good Lord to make it feel better  
And I carry the weight of the world on y shoulders  
A family in crisis that only grows older

-_Confessions of a Broken Heart (Father to Daughter)_, Lindsay Lohan

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Dana Cruz likes to see her world in simple black and white. Sure, colour is there, but colour is just too fucking bright and painful. Black and white is just easier for her to settle for.

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Dana Whitney Cruz is born in San Diego in February 1991 but she will always crave for New York.

San Diego brings up bad memories of Spanglish-riddled arguments permeated through her dark purple and light lavender walls. Her ten-year-old ears can't take it so she's being strong. She's being a girl even though the sounds of her mommy and daddy screeching at her get louder and louder. _Big girls don't cry,_ Daddy says. _Big girls are tough and don't break, Dana._

So, Dana swallows her damn pride and she's so shaking so badly, hugging her seven-year-old brother, Patrick close to her because she'll protect him. Dana will fucking protect him even though she can't do anything influential for a ten-year-old.

"Dana," Patrick says, and he's latching onto her. His eyes are wide and they gleam in the seemingly tangible darkness, despite the sliver of light from the hallway that slices through it. But god, they're so brown and wise beyond his seven years of footie Power Ranger pajamas and cartoon-watching Saturdays. "Daddy's making Mama cry. I'm scared," he pauses, studying her. "And you are too."

"No, I'm not."

Because big girls don't cry. Big girls aren't scared. Big girls don't complain and they don't tremble wishing the bad to go away. She's not scared of anything.

"Yes, you are."

"Shut up, Patrick," Dana bites out but it lacks something and god, she's hearing the sniffles. She's feeling the wetness go down the apple of her cheeks. He grips her a little tighter, resting his head in the crook of her neck. "I'm not scared."

But she really is, but only wants to make her daddy dearest happy.

The sniffles and tears are hers and happiness is pretty fucking intangible now.

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Her father, Manny is standing at the door and her mother, Theresa, is almost hyperventilating, crying and actually silent as the doorway to their San Diego apartment is open and oh so inviting.

Dana isn't stupid because she knows. She knows what's happening and her parents are looking at her like they're fucking apologizing because mommy and daddy don't love each other anymore. They're looking at her with silent apologizes and actually understand it's okay for daddy to cheat on mommy and get his big boobed, horse-faced secretary pregnant. Again. There's a nine year old half-sister Dana hates but never meets. She's made up her mind already.

Long Lost Half-Sister is probably horse-faced and on her way to being big boobed too.

"I'm so sorry, mija," Manny says with a softness that makes her cringe against her will. Because he's lying. Everything's a damn lie and there are no such things as fairytales. "I love you and Patrick so much."

Liar, liar and today, Dana realizes that his pants are definitely on fire.

Maybe it's her pointed glare as he sighs and leaves contributing to it.

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Patrick looks at the empty park space, the ghost of Manny's car _almost_ there. And their mother's car is now all alone and solitary, just them.

"Patrick," Dana says, looking off to the side, standing in the doorway because she's done crying. That's what she likes to tell herself. Actually, not even close.

He turns around and speaks in an unusually eerie calm voice too old for his seven years. "Daddy left."

"Yep."

That's all she needs to say, because Dana just knows.

And hell, she's seeing a lot of blurred red too. It's okay, but it also sucks.

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Three months later, seven-year-old Patrick is in trouble with picking his…the administration has officially lost count on how many times the first grader is pried off another boy in another schoolyard fight. Meanwhile Dana is in equally serious trouble for flipping the teacher off and chucking the blackboard.

And for the first time, she beats up, Savannah Tomlin, the meanest, most obnoxious girl in fourth grade.

"Hey Dana."

"What?" she glares, not tearing her gaze from her notebook because she's developed a habit of writing during recess.

Savannah smiles and it's one of goddamn pity – and make it fucking stop. Dana doesn't want the damn pity stares and the soft, uncomfortable apologies like she's walking on eggshells.

"So," the other girl is snickering and Dana feels her pencil bend in her grasp, her writing getting darker from the increasing pressure. Savannah's voice is sickeningly happy and mocking and for the first time in a while, Dana actually wants to go to confession and say a couple of Hail Mary's for insurance beforehand. "My mom was talking with her friends, and I heard your mom and dad split up. Seems her dad got tired of your mom and is dating his secretary now."

"And your mom likes to visit the doctor to have needles to put in her face," she shoots back, sarcastic smile plastered on her face. Listen closely. There's the sound of her teeth grinding in anger and her jaw set. It disappears quickly and her brown eyes are a slow building ember of rage. "So, get out of my face and we'll see if I don't break your legs."

"Fine, I'll leave, Dana," Savannah says, and flips her sparkly blonde hair off her shoulders. "But it's not my loss. It would damage my rep if I were to be seen with a couple of losers like you and your little brother anyway."

Dana's pencil breaks into two and her fist apparently has a mind of its own.

Because in the span of two minutes, she punches Savannah Tomlin in the mouth and the feeling has never been more intoxicatingly tranquil.

And then she sort of blacks out – never physically in the middle of a fight.

All she remembers is a lot of Savannah's high-pitched, dog whistle sounding screaming and a clump of blonde hair clutched tightly in her fist when one of the teachers pry her off.

Now, Savannah's hurt. Patrick is getting school counseling and Dana's suspended for three weeks.

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Manny tries to scold Dana trying to tell her the difference between right and wrong.

"What you did was wrong, Dana," her father's voice sounds. It's a mess of words that stay messy when they weave themselves through her left ear and come out her right.

She doesn't care and doesn't want any more games of _House_.

But Dana laughs in his face because she really doesn't care anymore. The whole damn system is hypocritical: daddy trying to be a parent and mommy nodding as if to agree with him.

Lies, lies, lies.

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Sometimes, Theresa cries. Even when it's been three years later – the fifteenth.

Dana is tougher and thirteen with pretty strong walls. Patrick just turns ten this May.

And Dana can hear it because her walls are way too thin for her liking and maybe she's born with the ability of super-acutely, overly-sensitive hearing, but Dana hears her mother sob – some nights are quieter than others.

Dana has empathic tendencies when Theresa cries and some nights she curses her mother for being such a fucking pushover. Patrick is neutral and just doesn't care. Anger bubbles up on the inside of her when she clutches her pillow a little tighter, her nails almost digging into the fabric to the stuffing below.

Dana doesn't really understand how Theresa takes her father back after her younger-by-one-year half sister, Stephanie is the product of the whole damn affair, and there's three-year-old, irritatingly adorable half-brother, Evan. And it's sad because her mother is driving more frequently to the liquor store. There are more half-drunk bottles of vintage red wine and glass bottles of Corona clink together that take up space in their semi-white fridge when she's really hungry and needs to make something for her and Patrick to eat.

With the sleeplessness that seems to never really end, Dana looks up at the ceiling and vows to _never_ turn out to be a carbon copy of her _push-over_ mother.

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"You know something, Dana?" says soft-spoken Stephanie, glancing down at the kitchen island. She's slamming the glasses a little harder, closing the fridge a little harder with her foot because everyone who has an ounce of swagger closes fridges and doors with the point of their toes. Who wants to close door the conventional way? There's no one home because Patrick is hanging out with friends on a weekend. Theresa is out and suddenly it's Dana that's left to bond with her little sister – uh, _half_-sister not to get it twisted – on one of the weirdest days of her life.

She almost wants to glance around and play stupid because surely Stephanie isn't breaking her mouse-like silence to address her. No, she's not.

Those damned tequila and gin bottles clink when she gets to the apple juice and it makes Dana roll her eyes, muttering an inaudible, "Fuck."

A curl falls in her face and she roughly brushes it away when she pours the juice and leaves the carton on the counter.

"What?" she returns, voice snapping with a sting. The apple juice gleams and Dana's just drinking it for show.

Stephanie looks up and her hazel eyes look nearly orangey-green in the kitchen light – almost like a cat and godamnit, Dana is not that much of a dog person so it's not fair that her eyes vaguely remind her of a scruffy, stray cat who rubs her against her ankle as she tries to walk away silently begging, please _please_ _please_ _love me_.

"My brother and I never asked to be born," and she tucks a lock of her dark brown hair behind her ears, eyes shining behind her black-rimmed glasses. "Why do you hate me?"

"I don't hate you."

"Yes," Stephanie's adamant, those eyes almost seeing past her. "You shun us. You and Patrick are the only older siblings I know, and my brother is too little to understand. At least, Patrick is nice to us. But you shun us completely – me especially. Does it matter that we share the same father?"

"It matters when your mom made you and Evan," she says, pointedly. " – with my dad when he was still married to my mom."

"Again, Dana," Stephanie sighs like she's actually angry. "I didn't ask for that. Neither did my little brother."

"Okay," and she's laughing. In the back of her mind, Dana's wondering how the hell she becomes somewhat bitter and venomous. It's a damn rush through her veins, and god, it's so fucking sadistic at the same time. "So, you're okay with being a bastard child?"

"Don't."

She smirks, "Don't what? Dish out the truth? Tell you like it – "

"Stop it!" the twelve-year-old shrieks, breathing rapidly and tears finally escaping her. "Don't you go patronizing us! I don't deserve that especially from _you_!"

"And what the hell makes me so special?"

"You're my sister for fuck's sake!"

"Half!" Dana corrects, and they're standing nose-to-nose. Stephanie's stubborn and she can admire her that much for being solid but other than that, there's nothing else. Patrick is the only full sibling she knows and has.

And then Stephanie backs up and smiles through her tears, "Wow, you do hate me."

She sighs, wiping her tears away but her cheeks are still wet while Dana crosses her arms over her chest.

Dana's eyes narrow as a defensive force of habit and her fingers twitch and curl into a fist. "You should be happy I didn't kick your ass out of here right in your backyard pool and make you crash into your pretty French doors."

"I guess, I'm lucky then."

"Maybe," Dana whispers and again her voice lacks that freaking bite because she really wants Half-Sister With the Cat-Eyes to go home stung, shattered and a little broken.

She's seen the house _her_ dad lives in with Double D-Horse Face Lady. Everyone else calls her Gina.

It's four times the size of their three-bedroom San Diego apartment-townhouse. The walls are just so perfectly painted and painfully white with splash of beige and all of these coordinating colours that are prefect and merged together in perfect harmony. There are French doors that are like fragile and glassy and that's the one time, Dana is actually scared. Manny and Gina pose and smile in beautifully framed pictures and look so lovey-dovey and sober while Theresa is almost borderline alcoholic.

A car horn sounds in the distance, "There's my mom. I'm gonna go."

"Whatever, Stephanie," she shrugs, and Sad, Wounded Half-Sister with the Pretty Kitty Eyes blinks before heading to the apartment door and it closes.

There's pressure building at the back of her eyes and the apple juice still leaves bitter, crappy residue in her mouth.

Fuck.

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Patrick is ten and still has that wise, ominous, silent brilliance about him.

His skin is tanner, littered with small brown freckles mostly on his arm. But he's more level-headed than she is. His dark brown curls darken slightly and get shaggier. Patrick walks into her room at night when he's restless and he's asleep in her bed. Any other guy within a ten mile radius and to be brutally blunt, Dana would have him neutered without any sedatives.

His laughter rings out in the darkness, their only light source being the digital clocks that glows _2:06 am_.

"You made Stephanie bawl like a baby who's cutting teeth," he says. "Poor girl literally ran by me when I was coming back was hanging out with Josh at the skate park."

She opens one eye and finds a new creative way to glare at her little brother.

"And?"

He blinks and that knowing smile is so bright even though the room is dark.

"You're just straight up cold, sis."

"Then go sleep in your own bed."

"Nah. It's warmer than mine and you know I like doing that thing," he pauses. "You know, where I flip the pillow over when one side gets too warm because it's better to sleep on the cold side."

"You and everybody else," Dana replies, airily and yawns. "But question: when the hell did you get so chummy with Stephanie, Evan and their mom?"

Patrick shifts in bed a little, rubbing the crust out of his eyes, "Face it. It would be lame to wail on a three-year-old kid that is pretty freaking oblivious to whatever's going on."

"He'll know soon enough. A lot of therapy that will go nowhere."

"You said it, sister," Patrick agrees, nodding slightly, and then grins mischievously. That is why Dana says he's her little brother. His eyes have this crazy, endearingly insane gleam in them like those of a killer before he slashes the unsuspecting victim's throat ear-to-ear. "Nothing says BFFs Forever like hawking up a couple of unsuspecting loogies in their drinks. And I peed in their nice pool just to make the pool guy's life difficult. Would have blown a couple farts in there but," he shrugs, full of nonchalance. "You know."

A smirk stretches on her face and both of her eyes are open both.

"You're gross."

"No," he corrects, feigning innocence. "I'm ten years old, and I'm in the fourth grade. I don't know what I'm doing."

She laughs genuinely, and it's scarce. Thank God because she almost forgets what her laughter sounds like.

"You're going to Hell."

Patrick yawns with a sleepy smile between turning over, "Oh, well. So are you."

Dana rolls over in the opposite direction and with her arm hanging lazily across Patrick's torso and her leg hanging there as she sleeps, she's falling asleep to silence because Theresa is quiet this time.

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In August 2004, there's a letter saying that Dana has been accepted to a boarding school in Malibu called Pacific Coast Academy and that they are just starting to accept girls.

Patrick is looking at her with silent reassurance with a slight nod of his head because he's starting fifth grade in the fall. He's a big boy and can handle himself because his big sister teaches him everything in his arsenal.

"This is a great opportunity," Theresa says, with a smile that doesn't have the brightness it used to before – when things are happy and so close to perfection they could take family pictures and frame them. They could be framed not with pricey, shiny, over-blinged frames but ones that are just simple and just as good, plus sentimental value. Not like this. "PCA is not that far of a drive and I know you'll be enjoying yourself there."

Dana really needs to get away from here and she nods back at her brother who smiles like it's a secret. It's one of those sibling secrets that can't be told but they just _know_.

Rolling her eyes, she puts the letter on the table, "Yeah, Mama. Whatever. I'm pumped about being in a huffy boarding school full of snobby rich kids."

Theresa's smile deflates a little, Dana notices while Patrick goes upstairs. But it's always flat to begin with. It _always_ is.

But whatever. Her life is about to change somewhat and there's packing to do.

* * *

**A/N: And there it is. I hope you all enjoyed the first part of this three shot. I'm doing in three different periods in Dana's life: pre-series which was this one, her time at PCA going into when she leaves for Paris, and then the last one about her future. I'm not going to do anything else until this is finished but it's not a chore for me because I had fun with it. And I'll be working on the second part tomorrow into the next weekend. If I pound it out fast enough, it'll be done by Monday. **

**Everyone that was introduced here will make an appearance. For example, Patrick will definitely be sprinkled in the story as well as the intricate family situation and everyone matures and gets older. I already have the picture of an older Patrick in my head. **

**Plus some new curveballs thrown Dana's way. I hope I got her character down enough. **

**Presley, I hope you especially liked it. I spent all week on it and since I know you love Dana hardcore…BAM! A whole three-shot devoted to her.**

**To everyone else, y'all know the drill. Review. I don't expect it, nor do I really care but it would be rude of you to favourite, alert and then not leave me a review saying WHY you added it to your favourites and such. Understand? Like I will stalk you and ask why, so review if you don't want me to.**

**-Erika**


	2. the sweeping insensitivity of this

Oily marks appear on walls  
Where pleasure moments hung before  
the takeover, the sweeping insensitivity  
Of this still life

-_Hide & Seek_, Imogen Heap

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Dana appreciates the California beaches almost as much as New York winters that are frigid and blanketed by snow that is beautifully pure and so white, it's blinding. They make her feel like a child again – the times of oblivious innocence and when she looks up to her father like he's the epitome of everything _good_ and _perfect_.

The boardwalk has the cliché backdrop of an oblivious sunset but it operates like nature's clockwork. There are hues of orange and yellow merged with powerful reds, so powerful it looks like the sky is bleeding. _How morbid of you, Cruz,_ her head teases in a quiet whisper in the back of her mind. Walking with Patrick, he seems unusually quiet. He sits, planting himself in the sand and he's drawing little patterns and then the sand slips between his fingers. Her nails aren't that long and manicured but the black nail polish is slightly chipped and peeled off in some places.

Maybe Dana should stop biting them long enough to grow them out.

She digs her toes with the standard black painted toes into the warm, damp sand and it's the most relief Dana feels in a while.

But she's endearingly envious of Patrick's perpetual sense of Zen and calm.

Combing her fingers though her newly highlighted curls, she says, "I don't get it. How the hell are you so chill about all of this?"

"I'm not," Patrick replies. "I just keep things on the inside more," he shrugs, like he doesn't care. "And besides, I know I'm going to snap eventually but I'm prepared for it," Patrick sighs, a shaky angry sigh and she watches his eyes darken. "But I'm angry. I feel like I want to break every bottle of gin, tequila and beer we have in the house and just scream."

"You know keeping things inside isn't cool."

But Dana's an expert and she's considering writing a book. Oh, sarcasm is a pretty little drug.

It's not but rules like this are fun and important to break. It's good because she's an expert. It's great because Dana has control and all this power – whether to shut people out or let them in is totally her discretion and she loves that it's the only thing she can control.

"Yeah, yeah," the ten-year-old waves off. And he's playing with that same patch of sand like it's actually interesting. "But I'm only ten. I'm allowed to have fits when I don't get my way. Only my fit will be a bit longer than yours but I'll cope. Whatever."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You made our half-sister cry and killed anything she had in you. And Evan turns four in December. He's blinded by the idea of Santa and the reindeers to care."

Patrick sees her sister's side profile and it changes from his view but it doesn't bother him.

"I never asked her to idolize me," Dana adds in a snarky tone with a smirk that is second nature and the sun looks a magnificent orange as it descends. There's sand in between her goddamn toes and the relief is just a trap. "If anything, Stephanie put that gun to her own head and then pulled the trigger by asking me about my _feelings_, Patrick. I never asked anybody to do anything."

The Eskimos in Antarctica would be jealous of her ice.

Patrick blinks and shakes his head, "You're weird. But we should head home."

"Gross," Dana replies, with a frown but stands and slips on her flip flops before dusting herself off. "You cool about starting the fifth grade in two days?"

"As long as you're my sister, I'll be fine," Patrick rolls his eyes, good-naturedly which earns him a light shove, but she smiles a small smile and muses up his hair in a ruffle before releasing him. "Anyone gives me legit trouble, I clip them in the mouth and cry self-defense. Happy?"

Dana smiles down at her little brother.

"Very. You smartass."

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It's September 6, 2004 at six in the evening and Dana is packing her duffel bag.

She's packing the essentials: her clothes which consist of black items with the occasional splash of colour because honestly Dana is forced to reluctantly concede to the fact that her life isn't a total funeral – it's on the brink but not one. She stuffs all of her clothes in there, ignoring Theresa's incessant command of, "Ay, dios mio. _Fold_ your clothes, mija."

Snorting with suppressed laughter, Dana thinks, God won't like his name coming out all slurred even though Theresa's trying hard not to sound like it. How the hell is she still a registered nurse?

Dana continues packing, throwing more things in there until she picks up a picture frame that is on hinges: on the left is a seven-year-old, Dana with a four-year-old Patrick at the beach. That kid totally deserves being beat up for knocking over Patrick's castle.

"It's okay, Patrick," Dana soothes and makes him blow into a tissue before wiping his tears away. "I got that butt-face for you. And I'll help you make another one, okay? Just stop crying."

Patrick doesn't say anything but grins so wide that his dimples look like craters and his eyes have so much admiration shining in them.

"You're my favouritest big sister ever, Dana!"

On the right is a picture taken just two months ago: Patrick and Dana throwing side way smiles to the camera as her arm lazily hangs over his shoulder because they have swagger and they're awesome that way.

"We're leaving San Diego one day, right?"

"Hell yeah," she confirms, glancing at him because god, she really wants to leave too. "New York for sure."

"Nice. I guess, I'll have to wait until I'm eighteen to get tattoos, but I'm down for New York too. I'll meet you there."

That dimpled smile makes a comeback and for that short, brief moment, Dana feels like everything's okay.

Sunsets seem to be her favourite thing to look at nowadays.

Dana will miss her mother because she's programmed to and it's almost out of a sense of pity for Theresa. Stephanie and Evan will be like flies in the back of mind so she doesn't have a choice but to remember them and reflect on them. Her dad will be there in her head even though she's going to yell at herself for being so soft and caving.

But Dana will honestly, wholeheartedly miss Patrick.

She's going to find it gut-wrenchingly hard to say goodbye to him because she genuinely and truly loves him _so much_.

Dana places that foldable, hinged picture frame in the most _delicate _of places in her duffel bag.

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When she finds out her father is the one that's going to drive her to Pacific Coast Academy in the morning, the reaction transpires into something like this:

Patrick blinks in silent shock, shooting Theresa a look that clearly reads _what the fuck_ and then he shovels another two spoonfuls of painfully soggy Fruit Loops in his mouth.

They are his last spoonfuls and there are milk stains on the counter.

Suddenly on one of these occasions, Dana feels like she wants to die because it's really not fair.

In-fucking-credible.

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The sun is all too bright. There are no trees with leaves that change colour but idyllic looking palm trees that gently sway in the perfect breeze. The champagne-coloured coloured Jeep Pathfinder is too clean because she's a certified slob and likes to sleep in a pile of her own discarded clothes surrounding her bed.

There are people that masquerade as colourful, rainbow-looking blurs. Her feet are his dashboard out of a subconscious, seven-year-old habit. The champagne coloured mini-van is just too new, too prim and proper and Dana feels like she's being kidnapped by her own father – maybe it's selfish but at the same time it's selfless: kidnapped by Manny means things can be her own self-delusion of the way they used to be before this. Before everything comes crashing down and Dana has to constantly build nice, hard walls to protect herself and guard her sanity.

And it's selfless because Manny's not worth it. Stephanie can have him.

A little annoying voice that almost sounds like a twisted version of dear, sweet, Future Humanitarian Stephanie rings in her head, _That's false hope. You hate false hope_. There are sharp, sarcastic remarks begging, pleading, pounding, and scrambling from being stuck between the tip of her tongue and the gates that act as her teeth.

"So," Manny awkwardly says, putting on a smile that doesn't quite match how he's supposed – uh forced – to feel today. "This is great. You're starting eighth grade, Patrick is starting fifth grade, Stephanie's starting seventh grade in the AP Program, and Evan just started daycare. So, this is great and I'm happy to drive you to your first day of boarding school."

Welcome to Cruz Bunch – it's the one with illegitimate children conceived from fucking retarded affairs with hawked loogies in the edibles and urine tainted pools courtesy of a dangerously vengeful and brooding Patrick under a tranquil façade. Oh, and for the curtain call, Theresa raids the wine cellar Dana knows is probably there in that palace. And before the imaginary screen fades to black, Dana will taint Gina's eggnog with cyanide in the Christmas special – Feliz Navidad, anyone? – or strangle her with a string of pretty Christmas lights because despite her Horse Face and Balloon For Breasts, the secretary's face lacks any Botox and she's _sinfully_ beautiful.

Whichever act is easier.

Annnd cut.

"Nobody's making you."

She glances at him through her peripheral vision and sees his grip on the wheel tighten, turning his knuckles shades lighter than the tanned skin she and Patrick inherit from him.

The corners of his mouth falter downward and Dana's stomach begins a cramping motion.

But that's solely because Dana has a Granny Smith apple for breakfast. She hates Granny Smiths.

"I know, mija," he replies, and yes, the purple _You_ _Are Now Entering Pacific Coast Academy_ sign whizzes by in a distinct purple blur, bigger than the rest. The car masquerading as a germaphobe's paradise slows down as it heads to the _Student Drop-Off_ area. "But I wanted to because you're my daughter and despite everything," Manny stops the car completely and Dana sighs in her head. She usually wishes alarm clocks to be banned, but she wants one so she can wake up. "I love you very much. That goes for Patrick too."

She stares at Manny, lifting her feet covered with new black Converses off his dashboard.

"Okay."

Manny Cruz gives her a tight-lipped smile, eyes clearly showing he's wounded. Dana gets out the passenger side, her window completely rolled down because clearly her father just wants his little girl to be happy and blah blah blah. She's not complaining, but Dana is just tired of it. Whatever.

Slinging her black duffel bag strap when she gets it out of Manny's car, Dana stands there blinking at her father and he tries again, "Goodbye, Dana," she can see him swallow thickly, the Adam's apple in his throat bobbing in a slow vertical motion. "I – I love you, okay?"

Dana tries to thaw out. Trying not to send out as many emotional icicles.

"Okay."

Manny smiles one of the Smile When You're Crushed smiles and he's driving away.

_But,_ Dana thinks while gripping her duffel bag strap, _there's a small silver circular locket that your father gives you when you turn eight._

She only remembers its presence now and the fact that Dana doesn't yank it roughly from her neck and crush it underneath her shoe should be significant enough. It really is.

Now, Dana is characteristically annoyed in her damn right as she trudges off to find where the hell Room 101, Butler Hall is.

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The first thing Dana notes when she walks into Room 101 is that it looks like _Claire's_ & _Ardene's_ causes something that resembles a preppy pink and purple nuclear explosion in the semi-barren room. Dana's standing there in the middle of the room already angry from the whole half-assed father-daughter trip and the fact that her dorm advisor shows the signs of being the type of woman to be a bitter single person who fills the void with excessive food and Jay Leno. Since when is Dana actually supposed to give a rat's ass about Jay Leno?

Her encounter with her dorm advisor, Coco Wexler, goes something like this:

"Welcome to Butler Hall," the lady with the clipboard introduces like a trailer-like Vanna White. "Name?"

"Dana Cruz," she deadpans and it's a game of who can look the most bored. "Look, can I just have the room assignment to my dorm? I'm gonna have to share anyway."

"Will that be a problem for ya?"

"Yes," Dana nods and answers, bluntly. She glares and Patrick would frown in an endearingly disdainful way if he were to be here. "Yeah, it will."

"So is getting my boyfriend, Carl, to stop ignoring my calls when his softball team loses. And getting him to wash his own underwear for once. Oh, and tickets to Jay Leno would be nice. I mean, I pop the pimples on his back. Without goggles and – "

Dana rubs her temples and cuts Coco off roughly, "And where does it say I'm supposed to care?" she glares, cutting through Coco's silence.

Exactly. ("Jesus, Dee," Patrick would say. "Ooh, ice _and_ claws? That's a step up.")

Coco sighs, eyes falling to the clipboard, "You are assigned to Room 101 and you have roommates."

"Lucky me," Dana mutters and takes her room key, continuing her Dead Woman Walking gait.

And that's how she ends up at this moment.

"Hi," a blonde says, with a bright smile. "I'm Zoey," and then she gestures to the brunette who resembles someone whose had way too much sugar. Dana catches a glance that the purple unplugged hair dryer among the pile of crap of the bottom bunk and yes, there will be problems. Oh, Blondie, erm Zoey, is talking again. "And this is Nicole."

Okay.

She has to clarify some things and break the imaginary fourth wall here. Having a dorm alone won't kill her. It wouldn't signify the end of her world and she won't break down and cry those stupid tears so whatever it's fine. Maybe. Sort of. Honestly, that whole line about getting to choose whichever bed is allotted based on arrival sounds better in her head and Dana mentally slaps herself because it should stay there.

But Dana wants the bottom bunk. And that's the truth. She always sleeps in bed with walls, and she likes her corners. Because walls and corners hold secrets people can't.

"But that's my bed!" Nicole cries, but shrinks instantly. "And I'll be moving my stuff from it right now."

Nicole isn't as dumb and loopy as she looks, Dana will give her that much credit which in reality pretty little. And Dana doesn't feel like beating anyone up. Not today.

"Okay," Dana says, with narrowed eyes, dropping her duffel in the middle of the floor because her shoulder hurts from the weight – she's talking through the pain because she never wants anyone to know how really feels. "I wanted a single room but I'm stuck with you two, so here's how it's going to work. You two," she gestures between them in a fast motion. Zoey actually has guts to step up to her, Dana admires in the back of her head. " – are going to steer clear. Stay out of my stuff and outta my way and we won't have any problems."

She breezes by them, going into the bathroom all by herself because Dana doesn't anyone to see her show the beginnings of weakness when her hand lightly encircles the locket, reflecting back at her in the mirror.

_Big girls don't break. Big girls never show weakness, Dana. Big girls don't cry,_ says her father's voice the way she remembers it. It's all she really has of Manny now.

So, out of conditioning and a semi-deranged sense of habit, Dana grabs hold of the painfully white porcelain sink, blinking back the tears and quietly yells at herself to toughen the hell up.

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.

Dana swears she will not, under any circumstances, get involved in any drama that involves the following: a horribly issued challenge of a basketball between stupid, testosterone filled boys, losing miserably because the only person who can actually handle the effing orange ball is Zoey resulting getting their asses handed to them on an asphalt basketball court. Watching the other girls practice is painful enough – anymore and she'll rip her own eyes out.

Or watch her mother get wasted while she pops popcorn for the show because it always feels like she's in the front row. Oh, hell no. She can't take it. Actually, correction: she won't _take_ this.

So, Dana is going to walk away all by her myself and take an afternoon nap. She misses those.

"Dana!"

Yep. Still walking away – a yawn gets in the way of Dana flipping them off for good measure.

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"Hey, kid!" she yells, spotting a seventh grader. The kid's eyes widen like saucers and looks like he's about to shit himself. Under any circumstance, she would laugh or quietly snicker but now she's confused wondering why the heck she's back, contemplating doing the one thing she absolutely swears not to do. His eyes are blue, darting around as if Dana doesn't call him. She almost feels a twinge of sympathy when the kid is slightly shaking in his Galaxy Wars shirt.

"Uh, me?"

"Yeah. Because obviously, I'm not talking to air," she replies, raising an eyebrow. Her brown eyes hold a gaze that goes past the spaces in the mental fence. Confusion floods over her because the girls aren't playing, Zoey's glaring at the apparently arrogant boy in the muscle shirt – Dana deducts this for one sole reasons: he reeks of _pretty boy asshole_ and Dana, unfortunately knows that scent way too well.

"You're not going to beat me up or wedgie me because if you are," he pauses, a look of smugness taking over his features. " – the joke on you! I'm not wearing any underwear!"

"Does it look like I actually care?"

"No."

Dana crosses her arms over her chest, sending a downward glare to the kid, "You weren't supposed to answer that, but you are going to help me answer something," she turns to the court again where Nicole is helping Zoey with her bloody nose. But she says protests and catches the basketball when it's thrown to her. "Who's the douchebag in the muscle shirt?"

"Oh, him," Commando Galaxy Wars Kid following Dana's gaze. "That's Logan Reese, eighth grader. He's insanely rich and thinks he runs the school just because his father donates a million dollars every year to the PCA Alumni Association," he shrugs, lightly. "And his mother is some well-known artist who donates at least five hundred thousand here to help fund the arts program here," he pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and frowns a little. "According to him, he's untouchable. It's like he has no Kryptonite here."

Dana sighs quietly, because she's starting to soften and break.

It's the effect Patrick has on her and sometimes, she really hates that this boy makes her think of him. And then she thinks of Stephanie because they're the same age. And she really doesn't want to. Not right now.

"What's your name?"

"Kevin," the brown haired boy blinks confused and answers meekly. "Kevin Reynolds."

"Okay, Kevin," Dana says, going into her red and black basketball shorts and pulling out a ten. "Here. Here's a ten to tell people that I was never nice to you. Tell them I was, and I'll hunt you down."

"But why the money?"

"Because you – remind me of someone. I don't go off spouting my feelings off to random people," and then she hurries him because he's standing there, looking from his palm to her and back – that _same_ admiration filling his blue eyes. "Now go! I have a reputation to keep. Leave before I change my mind, dude! Seriously!"

Kevin smiles at her and scurries away from her in the opposite direction.

Suddenly, Dana's become a hundred and five pounds of Kryptonite. And she will never miss the opportunity to knock Logan Reese's head down by a few sizes.

The first words out of her mouth when she strides on the asphalt court is, "Can I play?"

Zoey looks at her before she concedes with a smile, "You any good?"

Dana won't lie or front – catching Zoey's pass and slamming the orange basketball in a long-distance hook shot which in turn results from seeing the guys gape and stare, is almost as good as a good steady punch in the mouth. The keyword is almost because it never truly matches up to the real deal.

"Okay," the blonde says, smiling that rainbows and sunshine smile while Dana remains in a straight face. "You're in."

"Good," Dana replies, snatching the ball back from her. "Just stay out of my way and pass me the ball."

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.

"And our MVP for the night is Dana Cruz!"

She's only smiling halfway through the applause because she doesn't like to smile all the way. It's too fast too soon anyway. Besides, Dana Cruz is tough, outspoken, stubborn and lazy – smiling all the way means effort and Dana won't put up with psychological strain. She likes her sanity, thank you very much. The boys come over to apologize bashfully but it's the pizza and cake.

There's a song playing that is way too bubblegum, sugar coated pop for her liking. It's not her scene.

So, in typical Dana Cruz fashion, she tries to save her ears from bleeding by slipping away and makes it outside.

There's a calm that washes over her when she escapes the lounge party. Maybe it's the quiet.

Maybe the quality of darkness that can be soothing.

Maybe it's the nostalgic memory of a night when Dana and Patrick laugh and run in the park after trying to capture little fireflies in a plastic jar with Manny. _Not glass, okay? Because when it breaks, it's dangerous. Be careful,_ Theresa admonishes with a smile and equally bright brown eyes that sparkle under the glow of an electric lantern when sits on a blanket.

Dana misses the _fireflies_ and suppresses the light tug of nostalgia by burrowing her hands in her pants pockets a little deeper when she walks.

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She's a sports type of girl.

The only pieces of decent make-up she owns is a light pink of watermelon lip gloss, eyeliner that's done enough to be visible so it's not too dark and it looks whorish to her. Basketball and volleyball have always been the sports that Dana excels at.

She plays everything because she likes options, escapes and hates being damn confined.

Dana's staying there not even wondering how a lone orange basketball is there, but she bounces it. And it's rhythmic – bounce, bounce, _swish_, thump-thump, bounce, bounce, _swish_ –

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Dana Cruz," a smug voice says behind her. Dana lets out a careful breath because she doesn't want to kill anybody on the very first day of school. It doesn't surprise her that he knows her name. The only difference is that she's rather kick his ass than worship it. He's smirking and doing her pocket thing – fuck, it's her thing and here _Logan Reese_ is appearing out of nowhere and jacking it. "Looks like you're returning to the place where you girls got your asses kicked."

Dana bounces the ball a little harder, a little louder because she doesn't have to Stupid Filter on and Logan seems to have an irritating fluency in it.

"Can't hear you," Dana says, sweet sarcasm pouring like the thickest of molasses. "I wasn't around when the class for Retard-Speak was being taught," and then she ceases her bouncing and turns around, the moonlight accentuating his profile and his eyes are a deep brown that lights up underneath it. Narrowing her eyes, she shoves the orange basketball into his gut in the form of a disguised chest pass.

It's actually lower, and she keeps her annoyance, she has to let out a smirk of her own when he catches it with a masked grunt.

"And besides, _Reese_ – "

It's the first time she's ever called anyone solely by their last name, but Dana has a feeling they'll be doing that a lot – being on an argumentative, last name basis.

"The name's Logan, sweetheart," he snipes back like she's five and incoherent so she's glaring harder than she does in her fourteen years of life.

Dana doesn't know where this laughter is coming from beneath her glare.

"Okay, one," Dana says, stepping to him. "Don't talk to me because I'm retarded because that's more in your department, you dolt," she pauses, and their gazes lock in a battle of silent wills. " – and two, if I had been there for the entire game, you would have lost painfully."

Dana knows she has the option to make that shot, but to be honest, she throws it.

She throws the last shot of the game because it means the girls would win and then it would be a group effort. It's not selfishness. It's not bitchiness – it's just Dana's chronic aversion to dependence and wholly needing someone. It's as if she controls her isolation, her independence, her _me, myself and I_ demeanour. And losing that type of precious control, or the very thought scares her shitless.

His perfectly styled light brown curls move in the sharp California breeze while she attempts to get the thin wisps of her hair out of her face.

Logan scrutinizes her with raised eyebrows, an inevitable smirk growing.

"Is that a challenge?"

Grabbing the ball again, she strides to half court, bounces the ball and the orange basketball sails from her hands. It looks like a slow motion orange arc again, but the only difference is that there are no decisive bounces along the rims or straight ones on the back board.

The basketball descends with a clean swish that sounds like it's slicing through air.

"Yup," she answers, bluntly and the basketball rolls to her before retrieving it. "I'm calling you out."

"In that case," Logan shoots back, and there's a challenging look in his eyes because it mirrors hers. Great – they're both stubborn and hate to lose. What kind of epiphany is that? Karma's a bitch, but irony like this is just evil and no right. _Fuck_. He bounces the basketball three times. "Bring it on, _Cruz_."

And so it begins.

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.

Dana wins that little one-on-one game and she makes her point. Almost literally.

She's sleeping comfortably, tipping that line between dreams and reality until she wants to seriously impale Nicole for blasting that stupid pink hairdryer of hers. Dana would prefer the ringtone of her cell phone because she actually misses the hellion of a little brother.

She swears under her breath when Zoey shakes her, "Dana, we have thirty minutes until class."

Dana shifts, wondering if this is Death Wish Day. Her sleep-laced eyes are glaring at the blonde for waking her up a second time but the girl is brave, "Um, I know how to tell time, you know. So, let me sleep."

"No."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she mutters angrily and lazily rolls over, rubbing her eyes. She stands and stretches herself, plastering a smile on her features. "Fine, I'm awake. Happy?"

"You know something. That sarcasm won't help anyone," Nicole chirps from over Zoey's shoulder.

"Um," Dana snaps, twice as hard voice coming out in a slight growl. "It's the reason I'm not shoving you out of our window. So be glad. It's helping _you_."

Personally, the nooses she has planned for herself takes too much time. She's entitled to one shortcut of shoving her new roommate out of a window. That's her American right and the mental asylum would be less one patient. Brushing by Zoey and Nicole, Dana grabs her necessities to grudgingly get ready for class.

At then at breakfast, her first of many squabbles with Logan begin.

* * *

**A/N: There's Part two. **

**Obviously, this has exploded into something bigger than what I planned. I was determined to finish this before I went to bed. I already know where Part Three, and I will expand on some of Dana's significant episodes. The first chapter title was Lindsey Lohan's "Confessions of a Broken Heart (Daughter to Father)". I don't like LL but this song surprisingly helped me tap into something I never did. I don't want to give away too much but I can tell you that there will be some Dana/Quinn interaction because I've always wanted to write that. Next part will be a tad deeper into Dana's inner workings. **

**The chapter title's are the lyrics to song that I listened to on repeat while writing this. Feel free to PM me or leave your guess in a review. I'll PM you to tell you if you're right. I'm super excited about this story. Patrick will be making an appearance because something big happens and Dana WILL have no choice to head home. Stephanie and Evan will not really appear until the third/fourth part. Hmmm. Wonder that could be.**

**I also drew on some of my OWN experiences – like Dana listening to her parents fight and her dad cheating on her mom and such. My dad left me and my mom when I was ten. So yeah…only difference is that I'm an only child and my situation wasn't that extreme as Dana's.**

**Okay, now no more depressing stuff. I have church in the morning so I'm gonna count sheep now. Reviews are love. Especially well-thought out ones. Again, I don't mind that you favourite this and not review, but be warned that I will find you. So you know. Click the button below and it's all good :).**

**-Erika**


	3. so i hate you & love you, we're friends

The name of the game is outrunning the blame  
So I hate you and love you – we're friends  
Guess we'll be friends  
I guess we'll be friends

_The Dance_, Charlotte Martin

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Dana wishes on her most shittiest days that, for once, according to the shrink with quickly receding hairline that she has just enough guts to act on her "aggressive nature coupled with anti-social tendencies". At the time, she wants to flip the bird and yell a firm, I-don't-screw-around, _Fuck you_ but now that she absentmindedly taps her pencil against her hardcover History textbook, Dr. Balding Dude ("Hello, Ms. Cruz. I'm Dr. Baldwin.") may not have to shove his Ph. D upwards. Preferably in the ass area.

This is the honest-to-God, straight up truth:

Dana hates people. She hates how society how this convoluted, warped moulds of how perfection is supposed to look like. Seriously, she really can't stand the crazy, vapid bitches that go to this god-awful boarding school. Dana hates girls. There's too much drama and baggage that comes with being the best friend of a girl and let's face the facts: Dana has a painfully short fuse that will inevitably explode, especially when she hears them piss and bitch about crap that won't cause the Earth's axis to stand up straight or stop the motion entirely. The Earth keeps moving.

People are just way too obsessive, way too neurotic and way too high-strung for Dana to stand and after ripping their jugular cords out, a nice bullet through her head is tempting but she'll pass.

And then in retrospect, there is the whole idea of integrating without effort and being launched into this group of friends, being blind sighted by it all. Maybe Dana doesn't hate Pacific Coast Academy with a burning loathing, but she's not going to show school spirit by donning school colours and randomly yell, "Go Stingrays!" any time soon.

That's more up Nicole's alley because she's seems to leave a trailer of chatter and glitter wherever she goes. There's Zoey, who isn't that close of a friend because again, the bubbly brunette with the girly clothes and the goddamn glitter trail has that spot locked up and Dana doesn't want it. There's Chase with his dark bush of hair, baby face, and clumsy personality. She'll never say it but Dana has never seen pretty green eyes like his.

But Dana rolls hers because Chase likes her and Zoey must be playing retarded without the effort. What a talent – which when translated from sarcasm means that Zoey is painfully oblivious and it's sad to watch.

Dana finds the only other person who seems to have the unwritten and invisible how-to-read-Dana Cruz book, _Dana: The Hardest Rubix Cube Ever_ is a dude from Atlanta, Georgia named Michael Barrett because Patrick is her brother and won't share that _book_ with _anyone_. So, Michael must obtain that from somewhere, but whatever. As long as he learns to stay the fuck out of her head sometimes, then Dana will be lenient – quite the rarity.

Michael Barrett is probably the only one who won't lie to her or feed her a heaping pile of bullshit on a silver platter just because he can. And she hates how he makes her laugh against her will. There's a friendship that develops over time and then suddenly she's being slowly yanked away from her _Dana Cruz Only_ bubble. She watches that pop loudly when she scrapes her arm jumping a fence to get Elvis the dog back. Since when is she the Robin Hood for canines?

As soon as Dana waltzes in with a towel covered Elvis, another bubble goes up – this one isn't as reclusive and closed but from afar, it's not that much of a difference from the first.

There are no matching BFF bracelets because Dana thinks it's stupid and for Michael to have any charm bracelet in general would be…wrong.

So, like unspoken best friends Dana just steals Michael's iPod Nano while hers is charging on the deck. Like when she does last Thursday.

"You jacked my iPod again, didn't you?" he questions while there's one of his naturally optimistic grins that slowly stretch on his face.

"So?" Dana shoots at him and she's trying not to let a smile shine through so instead she smirks. Instead Dana allows a smirk to grace her lightly glossed lips while Michael sits. Adding a nonchalant shrug and a questioning glance, Michael drops his backpack and plops on the Butler Hall Lounge's centre couch. "What if I did?"

"Well," Michael lets out a sigh. "I guess I'm going to have to let it slide because how can I be mad when we're jamming to Michael Jackson?" he takes an earpiece from her and put it in his ear. His dark brown eyes shine and meet hers when he playfully warns her. "Watch out, though. I may Moonwalk and there may be a sequined glove around here somewhere."

She raises an eyebrow glancing at him, "Okay, I'm going to play along this time because I know you're joking."

"I wish I were."

Dana shoves at his shoulder, smiling a small smile, "God, you're such an idiot, Michael."

_Smooth Criminal_ is one of her favourite Michael Jackson songs anyway.

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"Mr. Reese," Mr. Callahan says fifteen minutes into his afternoon eighth grade English class and Dana doesn't care. They're starting to read the works of Billy Shakespeare and it's _Romeo & Juliet_. He saunters in doing that one bag strap-over-the-shoulder thing and smirks like he's hot because he's aware of it. But she doesn't give two shits. "You're late."

"It's called being fashionably late," he drawls out and she tries, almost wills the empty spot beside her away. She sits near the window and stares out of it, hands with newly painted black nails against the apple of her tanned cheek. Logan shrugs. "Be happy I even came."

Mr. Callahan sighs, "I'm ignoring that since your grade needs to be salvaged. There's a seat besides Ms. Cruz. Go take it so we can start the discussion."

The small thought of shoving Logan out of this window is sort of planned because he just grates against her last nerve. But the outburst isn't. She swears this time, it's really not planned and neither is snapping her head so fast that whiplash is almost Dana's next stop.

"Uh, no!" she cries, angry because today is Let's Fuck with Dana Day. "This won't work."

"Dana, I won't have any distractions, okay? There aren't any more seats."

There are some train tracks available or the cold, wet bottom of a swimming pool. He can sit there.

Captain McMuscle Shirt smirks like Dana's out of the loop, "Why don't you just admit you're attracted to me? No other girl seems to have a problem with admitting it," his brown eyes attempt to slice through her, the length of his cock-sure smirk widening and it's only the two of them in the room. One of them will come out alive if Dana has anything to say about it. (Hint: it's not _her_ blood that will be splattered on the windows) "Don't fight it, Cruz."

Dana smiles and she really needs to get a mechanical pencil or two because her regular one is start to slowly splinter, "And that's why you'll end up getting an STD from anyone willing to put out."

The class does that stupid clichéd _oohhh_ sound and is buzzing. What the hell are they buzzing about anyway? Dana's life is not that exciting unless it's for using material for a Lifetime Movie turned Effing Trainwreck – the kind of trainwreck where some of the passengers die instantly in their train cars and the survivors are revealed to be paraplegics and quadriplegics and _wish_ for suicide. No happy endings. _Definitely_ no miracles. Then, and only then, are they allowed to buzz.

Whore isn't her shade, Slut makes her puke and Brainless, Hollow Logan Reese Fangirl is absolutely horrendous-looking on her.

"Alright, guys! Settle down, people!" Mr. Callahan yells above the noise and looks pointedly in her and his direction. People need to really stop doing _that_ – silently accusing her. It's not Dana's fault, Logan's an easy trigger and a much easier bleeder. The blood _will_ come off. God. "You two. Behave or there will be some unpleasantness."

"Mr. Callahan," Logan says, feigning innocence. Stacy and Clinton would be horrified because Innocent on Logan 'Kiss-And-Run' Reese would clash like their ironically alike personalities. Unless a hospital is within a ten mile radius, blabbing that Dana actually can tolerate _What Not to Wear_ wouldn't be wise. Fucking goddamn irony. Logan smiles. "I'll be good. And so will my potential date over here."

Hail Mary, full of Grace –

"Okay," the teacher replies with a sigh. Clapping his hands together, he starts. "Can one of you tell me the symbolism between the relationship that transpires between Romeo and Mercutio?"

Her mood falls lower and quicker than a frosted thermometer left in a freezer for too long.

Dana glares and holds on with all her might because Logan's invading her space and she's starting to really see his chocolate brown eyes and the light brown freckles that litter his bridge of his nose. The freckles are like camouflage.

Too close, Reese. Too _effing_ close.

"So," he questions, and pauses for some kind of effect. And he raises those eyebrows in that way and the eyes are a deep, solid brown. Where did those small flecks of amberish colour come from? "Wanna make out?"

A dirty bus pole seems better than this – the whole sensation of being trapped by William Shakespeare and Mr. Callahan whose toupee seems to be on backwards.

"Bite me, Reese," she hisses angrily and turns away from those Freckles.

"Just tell where and how hard."

Let's get something established right off the bat: the tint of pink starting to spread across the apple of her cheeks is not a blush. It's clearly Dana being incredibly pissed off because her cheek is warm and her palm is sweaty.

Dana _really_ hates those things so the slightly deeper tinge of pink can't be attributed to _denial_ either.

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Quinn Pensky is weird.

Dana needs to get that fact out of her system even though rationale says it's not cool to pass judgment on people. Well, passing judgment to those that don't deserve it isn't cool. Besides that little loophole, she'll pretty bang that gavel around until it doesn't entertain her anymore. She'll wear the black judge's robe until she feels stuffy in it but yeah, Quinn Pensky is just straight up odd.

It's scary, though because Quinn walks blindly through life with her long brown hair in braids, the long words that confuse her and everyone else at PCA most of the time and the boyfriend who happens to be an emotional and social basket case.

In that Topsy Turvy way, Dana has a silent respect for Quinn because the brunette doesn't care what people say or think and Quinn won't change for the sake of conformity. Maybe she and Quinn are really more alike than anyone can really see. Quinn has all this knowledge at her disposal and can build literal weapons of mass destruction while Dana has her fists and her intimidation with the equally sharp tongue.

And they threaten Logan the most.

It's a Wednesday – one of those weird ones where nothing goes on right. It's a Wednesday which consists of Dana actually rolling out of bed earlier than usual, her side of the room not being as sloppy as she would like and Logan not making as many passes at her today. Or any girls in general.

"Look, you're hot. Like way hot," he admits, flippantly and shrugs nonchalantly. "But even I need a break because," he chuckles and gestures to himself. " – well, it's me."

Everyone probably just runs out of mace and kicking one person continuously in the balls can be tiring.

Everything just feels like the entire is flipped on its metaphorical ear and shaken down because Quinn, for once, sees Dana when she trudges into the girls' lounge, ready to collapse into her messy bottom bunk and sleep for a couple hours.

"Quinn, what the hell are you building now and will it kill us?"

"Oh. Hello Dana. And no, I'm not exactly building anything harmless," Quinn replies, brightly while there is a pair of needle-nosed pliers in her hands. "I'm actually optimizing my cell phone so that when I cross these wires and attach them to the circuit – "

Insert Infamous Look of I Don't Care here when Dana cuts Quinn off, "English, please."

"I'm just adding a security feature to my cell phone," the genius explains shortly. Pieces of her smile are just there. "Better to be safe than to regret it when the device goes missing. When it goes missing, I can find it because of a small tracker chip I'm installing into the circuit board now."

She clears her throat and idly wonders why she doesn't doodle on her Black _Jansport_ backpack more.

The backpack is way too bare and black. It needs more doodles. Dana nods slowly, "Right."

"So, what's up?" Quinn inquires, carefully twisting a red and blue wire with the needle-nosed pliers with the bright orange grips. Scuffing the toe of her shoe into Butler Hall Lounge's plush carpet ever so slightly, Dana brushes her loose curls out of her face and sighs.

"I'm gonna put this out there," she says, glancing of the side. Quinn's bespectacled glance is expectant so Dana's blunt. "Quinn, you're weird. I know people have said that behind your back and are most likely planning to say that to your face. But you're weird."

Quinn blinks at her falling into silence. If she cries, Dana will simply walk away because there are no doors for her to slam in front of someone's face.

And then Quinn acts nonchalant, nodding curtly as her braids obediently follow the motion.

"Yes, I'm aware of what people think of me," Quinn says and smiles again with a shrug. "But why worry about it? They're entitled to think that but I am who I am. I value my intellectual superiority but at the end of the day," God, her braids are really colourful and distracting like an unexpecting rainbow. "I'm still a person just like all of you. I mean, I could _change_ the opinions everyone on campus has on me but I would never use my intellect for personal gain _and_," she whispers, eyes slightly darting around. " – the FBI has prohibited me from talking about the extent of my mind control serum. Legalities."

Oh, _there's_ that dormant respect for Quinn. Wait, what?

"Did you say mind control serum?" Dana sounds genuinely surprised as she wraps her hands around the straps of her backpack from the whole force of habit thing.

Quinn makes it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, "Yeah. You heard correctly, Dana."

"Okay," Dana says, turning in the direction of her dorm. "I'm out."

"Wait!" Quinn calls out when her Converse-covered foot is in mid-step and a swear word probably not to be found in the pages of a Spanish-English Dictionary escapes her just barely.

"Yes?"

"I'm working on a research thing," Quinn explains, bashfully. "It's the co-relation between DNA, hair growth and the affects of excessive rage. Can I have one of your hairs?"

"No!" she slices in, roughly with a narrowed gaze. "I'm going to sleep now so I'll pretend you didn't just ask me that question."

There's a blinding difference between Silent Repressed Respect with a smallest of Admiration thrown in there for good measure and Attempted Hair Strand Theft for the purpose of science.

The teen scientist deflates, "Okay. Back to the drawing board, I guess."

"Yup," Dana says, attempting the walk to her dorm for a power nap before dinner. And here's take two. "You go do that."

Dana's peripheral vision sees Quinn go back to doing more things to her cell phone.

She may not carry a Quinn Pensky-English Dictionary with her but Dana respects Quinn to a small, sort of miniscule extent.

Sometimes, she really envies that self-assurance because feigning stability isn't as easy as it looks.

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_Twelve Things You Don't Know About Dana Cruz:_

**Twelve:** She loves those stupid-looking inflatable moon-bounces. Especially at parties because at heart she's just a little girl with curls and a bright smile that seems a tad dimmer over the years.

**Eleven:** She's not a heartless bitch. Dana can actually feel and react to her own feelings in return like homesickness: Patrick is on her mind all the time, her mom and dad maybe. Stephanie and Evan make appearances but they never stick around. Gina's appearances are scarce when there's indifference. The only other time Step Mommy Dearest sneaks into her thoughts is when Dana's angry.

**Ten:** Dana actually likes having Barbie Dolls – until she beats up Savannah. She likes pulling their heads off by their pretty, blonde plastic hair and decapitating them even more.

**Nine:** Michael's her best friend because he won't judge her. Chase is her friend because she can actually tolerate him and he has warm green eyes. Besides, he's dorky in an endearing, almost cute kind of way. She doesn't know where to classify Logan Reese yet and it's frustrating.

**Eight:** Dana thinks Zoey and Nicole aren't that bad for roommates. Until Zoey takes it upon herself to play Mother Goose and Nicole opens her mouth then it all goes downhill from there.

**Seven:** Her favourite colour is dark purple. But black is disturbingly prettier and easier to embrace.

**Six:** Dana only intimidates people because it's her own brand of selective permeability.

**Five:** She thinks school dances are stupid. And ones where dates are electronically matched are completely and utterly retarded.

**Four:** Dana sees her name intertwined with Logan's by horizontal dots and said, "No way!" when the three words bouncing off the walls of her skull at break-neck speed is, "Fuck my life!"

**Three:** Logan Reese, of all people is _her_ match? The personality test is broken or rigged not because that damn test is actually…right. Yeah, that's all – a horrible and downright messed up malfunction.

**Two:** She thinks Logan is actually bearable. Sort of behaving like Logan Reese Asshole Lite. Until he begins that ego-trip and totally ruins whatever little civility still remains.

**One:** There's an equation that all guys coming within a close distance of Dana Cruz must know: Dana + violation of personal space no matter how minor = immense physical damage. If Reese doesn't know that, then it's not her fault. When she goes to bed though, Dana wonders what would it be like to actually kiss him on the dance floor but then she cringes and silently screams into her pillow.

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.

.

She's talking to Patrick again while relaxing on a grassy expanse on the other side of campus. Dana's putting this out there but she'd like to congratulate the bastard who thought of the Free Period concept. The soft wind tickles the underside of her feet. Patrick's laughing, being the smart ass hellion he always is. Suddenly it's home – the one full of inside jokes, loud jovial laughter and her mother's home-cooked meals. Dana actually misses those.

"Wait a minute. It's Wednesday and you're s'posed to be at school right now."

"I know that," Patrick replies, voice muffled due to a mouthful of cold pizza. She can hear the television being flipped around from channel to channel. "I cut school. Test. Didn't study. And I hate fractions."

"Let me guess," Dana ponders, zebra stripped phone pressed to her ear. "You have mono."

"No. Partly because I don't know what that is," is his answer and Dana can hear the smile in his tone. "I had Josh tell the teacher I had tuberculosis," Patrick sighs. "Dee, dude's my best friend but sometimes, I wish he and his conscious would shut the hell up."

Oh, Patrick.

Dana laughs out loud and it startles her because it's back when she thinks it's lost.

"Do you even know what tuberculosis is?"

"No. But it sounds really gross so Mrs. Burnaby will get off my case. Everyone calls her Mrs. Burn-ass-by but not to her face because then it's just weird," Patrick says, and gets a devious tone in his voice – almost super secretive. "So, burn down PCA yet?"

She sighs and rolls her eyes, allowing her back to rest against the trunk of a weeping willow. It's comfortable with the nicest, calmest weather ever. Solitude is really _it_ for her at the moment.

"Surprisingly, no. I'm not the pyromaniac. You are."

"Hey," Patrick shrugs. "What can I say? Fire looks pretty to me and lighters are fun."

"Yeah, but anyway," Dana continues, crossing her feet at the ankles. "Almost entertained the thought last night at a dance where people were actually matched up by a personality test," she sighs, remembering last night – the _totally_ non-coincidental almost matching outfits plus the matching dark red flowered leis to add salt to the wound. Patrick makes an audible sound as if to prod her and Dana lowers her tone. "Well, you know the guy I was telling you about before?"

"The dude with the head two times the size of Aunt Marielle's boobs because he thinks he's all that?"

"Yep, Logan Reese," she replies with a groan. "I got matched with him and he actually behaved like an eighth of a decent person before he got in my personal space while we were slow dancing."

"_Whoa_," Patrick exclaims over the phone. "You slow-danced with this guy?"

"I hesitated. And then when he asked me to make out with him, I stomped on his foot."

"But still," her little brother breathes with the wide-eyed expression scribbled all over his face. She just knows – sibling to sibling telepathy or something. Zoey would know. After all, she wants to _know_ everything. "Dana, you let this guy into your Zone. You never let _anyone_ in there."

She narrows her eyes with a frown, "What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing now because you need to sleep and then call me back or something," he replies, backing off a little. "I'm your little brother and it's in my job description to be a little monster but whatever," he pauses and sighs. "I have tuberculosis anyway."

"Yet you don't know what that is," Dana replies, playing with a curl that escapes from the tight grip of her hair scrunchie.

"Don't have to. It's a disease and it's gross-sounding. What's there to know?"

Amusement floods Dana's body once more, "Oh, you're so going to Hell, dude."

"You're the Ice to my Fire, Dee," Patrick says, sincerely. "I miss you. So do Stephanie and Evan," he explains something to her and she starting to feel like her head is really compressed and heavy. "I mean, Stephanie always talks about you. Oh, and Evan smiles really big when there's a picture of you and says your name. At first, I thought he was mixing you and Stephanie up but he wasn't. He finds your school picture and practically yells, 'Big sister!' and he says your name a lot, Patrick softens to a tone that sounds like endearment. "He calls me Brother but he can't get the _th_ sound so it sounds like _Brudder_."

"Oh," Dana says, almost inaudibly. She's almost taken aback by Evan's three-year-old brain realizing that she's his big sister. But Stephanie's the older sister to him, not her. It can't possibly be her because her family tree is split right down the middle with the roots almost torn. Trying to smile, she replies. She's just the angry half-sister because his birth only adds salt to an already gaping, festering wound. It's a _fucking_ cancer. "Guess I should come down for a weekend away to see the little bugger."

"Yeah. Maybe," Patrick echoes, sounding distant. "Mama's never home. You know because she's working…and stuff. Dad's still trying to hang out with me."

"That's a shock," she mumbles, pulling up blades of grass. Her stomach begins to churn and emits a low growling noise that sounds decibels louder. "Look, kid. I'm hungry, so I'm going to go but I'll call you before bed or something."

"Yeah," replies Patrick with a chuckle. "If I don't pull a Dana Cruz and act like I'm dead first."

Dana's stomach growls again and she can feel the vibration underneath her hand.

"Shut up," she tries to be serious and she ends allowing a smile to crack because nobody sleeps like she can – feign death and fake comfort when her dreams are turbulent and rough in her subconscious. "Bye Patrick."

"Later, Dana. Gotta," he yawns. " – sleep off my tuberculosis."

She hangs up, putting the white and black stripped cell phone away in the depths of her pockets.

Next on her agenda, Dana will walk all the way to Sushi Rox in her flip-flops and pray she doesn't cross that teetering line between loud reasoning and silent, angry insanity.

.

.

.

"Mama, just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled the trigger now's he's dead – "

"Dana, either you somehow brought Freddie Mercury back from the grave and then kidnapped _Queen_ and don't want to share," Chase jokes in that sardonically sarcastic way she secretly loves. "Or your phone is ringing."

She steals one of Michael's sour cream and onion chips as this is a natural occurrence between them.

Months pass over her eighth grade at PCA. She kisses Michael on the cheek under mistletoe under the lounge doorway, turns fourteen year old in February 2005 and for once enjoys the party her friends put together for her complete with a video message from Patrick which touches her but she'll never show it publicly. Dana hears Stephanie's soft spoken voice wish her a happy birthday via a phone call. Quinn invents a mood ring for her that actually works ("I got the idea while doing research on your quite quick and excessive rage. It works great since I've tested it with lots of prototypes beforehand.").

And Zoey and Nicole aren't being as irritating but instead Dana says a genuinely _thanks_ for the birthday party because she's never had one like this before.

Logan still fights with her – her heartbeat doesn't ever increase ever so slightly, her blood never speeds up as it rushes through her veins, she never breaks her glare to stare a second longer at him and she never covers up the slight hitch when her breath catches in her throat. He's still a very stupid, egotistical jerk with a delusional 'it's-all-about-me' way of thinking and a six-pack that fucking teases her if that smirk isn't bad enough. And he turns fourteen two months after she does but whatever.

Dana doesn't hate PCA that much and is learning to adjust but one rule remains: touch her shit and that action results in _instant_ death.

While swallowing the chewed up chip, she looks at the call display as the screen lights up and suddenly there's that familiar residue of staleness and a sick, holy-crap-the-world-just-froze feeling washes over her.

"I have to take this," she says, almost to herself and before the questions are launched at her and she's forced to deal with perplexed looks, Dana hoists her backpack and walks away.

Nicole's bubbly voice holds indignation while Dana breezes by and briskly places one foot in front of the other, "Well, _that_ was rude." The hairspray is playing with the brunette's brain activity again, Dana concludes before she doesn't want to snap and turn on her. After all, she's never had her mother multitask and be a trigger too.

Dana presses the answer button and hears Theresa's voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Dana," Theresa chirps, sounding falsely chipper. Dana's feet are still carrying her far, far away. For a split second, she's five years old and wishes she could _fly_. "How are you?"

"As great as a person studying for end-of-the-year exams could be, Mama."

There's that Mystic Beach party in two days and she's genuinely looking forward to it.

The post-final exam relaxation coupled with an early June summer could actually do her some good.

"Oh, right," her mother replies in an understanding tone. Dana's far away on the other side of campus and let a breath she prays, Theresa doesn't hear. "I'm sorry I haven't been talking more often with you but Patrick kept me up to speed," she laughs a little but it's not the laughter Dana remembers or hears in her dreams. "So, I guess, you can forgive me for that, right?"

No. Because sometimes Dana is forced to be needy when she doesn't want to be. Sometimes, she's made to have nostalgic kid memories of a time where Theresa hugs her tightly when she cries and then it's all better. Against her will, Dana has memories of a mother who makes cinnamon-smelling hot chocolate before bed with whipped cream sprayed on the top – Patrick would get warm milk from a Sippy cup and like the function of a band-aid, everything's okay.

Humming those pretty Spanish lullabies in the shower makes Dana wish that she wouldn't remember but at that same, it's her pretty little curse and it's so intertwined with her that she can't forget.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," is her deadpan answer and there's the beginning of an aggravated sigh. "I know if you call, small talk doesn't last really long and it's always something huge at the end so what is it? Is Patrick okay?"

"Yes. He's fine and facing punishment next week because he just turned eleven this month and it didn't seem right to punish him on the week of his birthday, you know?"

"Yeah," her voice drops, while she kicks a random pebble out of the way. "Sorry I couldn't be there."

"His friends threw him a party at the skate park and he came home with a lot of gifts," her mother explains before her voice turns slightly grim. "But I had to lock them up because I found out he had a lighter and he had tried smoking a cigarette for the first time. Found a bunch of them in a pair of his pants."

"Oh," Dana lies, looking at the shoelace peeking out from around the tongue of her black shoe. "He didn't tell me anything about that."

"Really? Patrick tells you everything," her mother says. "I know it's a kid's curiosity but I'm still worried. Dana, tell me he told you something – a warning, anything. I know," Theresa cuts herself off. "I know I haven't been the best mother to you two because of the stuff that went on with your father, but I'm still a mother. And I worry. Patrick didn't tell you anything?"

"No."

"Are you lying to me?"

"No, I'm not lying."

See, Dana can make her sound steady and truthful too. All she has to do is learn how to cry pretty like the romantic comedies that sometimes make her want to gouge her hair out follicle by follicle.

"Are you sure?"

"God, yes," she sighs, aggravated because Theresa can't scrutinize her – the half empty bottles of gin, the small silver flasks of gin and the tall, towering bottles of vodka are there now and Dana's thriving so she doesn't care. "What did you call for, Mama?"

"Okay," Theresa pauses. "Dana, how do you feel about Paris?"

"Paris Hilton or the Paris, France?"

That laughter filled with nostalgia breaks through but she's not budging.

"I think Paris, France is actually easier to look at than Paris _Hilton_."

"Really because I have some news to tell you," Theresa explains, sounding like she's literally standing on eggshells, afraid to inevitably stumble over in a drunken stupor and crack the pure white shells. There's a sigh and suddenly Dana feels the need to sit down because her stomach starts churning. Swear to God, she'll absolutely castrate Nicole tonight for passing her Making Oatmeal thing if she hurls in a bush or something.

There should be a book out called _How to Sleep With One Eye Open_ – the Nicole Bristow Edition completed with pink glittery cover and a really long foreword by Zoey Brooks.

"Which is?" Dana presses on. Why the hell is her heart using her kidney as a trampoline to jump into her throat over and over again? She's getting angry and wishes Gina along with her silicon chest would just get the hell out of her effing head!

"I've thought long and hard, Dana. First, we're going to be leaving San Diego for New York. I've already got a place down for us secured and my family's there so you'll get to Nana and Grandpa Theo. Maybe some aunts, uncles and cousins too," Theresa continues and she can't speak because now her own icy vibes literally turn against her and she's frozen – forced to watch while everything practically fucking disintegrates. "And I'm going to start going to therapy for my drinking when we get settled in New York. I know I need to fix myself before I can be a better mother to you and Patrick."

There's a clump of fresh crapped shit and a high powered ceiling fan. Take a wild guess.

"Your father knows and will continue to be in you and Patrick's lives. He never fought me on custody for you guys so that's fine. I already told you about the move. He's gonna continue child and spousal support. Dana, you still there?"

She's breathing. It's hurting and the damn lump in her throat makes it difficult but she's _breathing_.

"Yeah."

"Okay, good," her mother says, gently. "Secondly, I received a phone call from PCA's international partner in boarding schools. It's a really respected boarding school in Paris and well, you're going to start there in the fall. The _New Student_ manual should be arriving in the mail for you in a couple days. Maybe the day after tomorrow or something," Theresa sounds all broken again and Dana can't – ugh, damn.

"Whatever."

"Dana, I know it's a lot of stuff to absorb so sleep on it."

And she laughs. Theresa laughs and Dana snaps.

"Bye Mama. I'll talk to you whenever," she spits out, abruptly because the grip on her phone slightly gets tighter. Suddenly, her feet are kicking and the feeling are returning – from the tips of her concealed toes to her lower knees.

Dana arrives half an hour late to History, and cuts English class entirely because she can tolerate history but totally and completely _hates_ English right now.

.

.

.

She feels completely lower than dirt, and hates how weak she is.

Dana hates how she's so put together on the outside she is with the glares, the dirty looks and the quips that seem to be cutting so deep. She hates that she feels like crying all the time and the goddamn attachment she has developed to this place. Here, her life is actually pretty normal and PCA helps her with the perfect lie of living in New York with her little brother and her parents are still together and still high school sweethearts.

But this is not her perfect world at all, but PCA is so idyllic so it's supposed to help keep her head in the clouds just a little while longer. She becomes part of a new tradition she'll never be part of again.

Michael is her best friend because she's little sick, twisted and maybe even a _little_ cracked. And yeah, Dana Cruz is jealous of his grip on sanity added with the whole normal thing and needs to steal his book, _How to Stay Sane (And Get The Best Ruffled Chips Out There)_, because she'll never buy it.

In her empty dorm, Michael looks down at the pile of pamphlets and booklets she hides from Zoey and Nicole because she doesn't want them to know. Dana doesn't want anyone to know because of her aversion to pity and disdainful glances.

"What's all of this?" Michael questions, flipping through the pamphlets and booklets situated on his lap. He's wearing that look of confusion and his eyes are wide with his eyebrows so high they almost disappear into his hairline. "Wow, this school's pretty tight, but why do you have all this stuff?"

"You're so thick."

Michael feigns hurt and places a hand to his chest, "Oh, Dana. You cut me deep."

She smirks for the first time in a god-knows-when and owes Michael for creating her ever-popular nickname: Danger Cruz. Michael creates but Logan makes sure it spreads like a virus. Maybe the smallest amount of silent gratitude is in order. Her gratitude will be in the form of glares, and punches to his obvious biceps because it hurts him and she's not supposed to give a damn about his nicely toned arms.

He sighs, and crosses over to make the imprint on Zoey's bed and looks at her with expectation and a kind of understanding that doesn't make Dana want to run away.

"Come on. It's _me_," Michael presses softly, with a smile. "Talk to me, Dana."

Rolling her eyes, Dana says sarcastically with a sigh, "I have all of these books and crappy pamphlets of that 'tight' French boarding school because the French love me."

"Oh, wow," he blinks at her. "You just totally had a Logan Reese moment."

Here comes the _holy crap_ that plays her head, "Ew. I can't believe you're actually semi-right."

"Okay, I know I'm risking my life asking you about this, but what's the real reason you're all cranky," he paused with a nervous but a smile she hopes is reassuring because Dana can't handle any sympathy. "I mean, _than usual_. Think about it: you rarely call Logan by his first name. What's weirder is you didn't even shut him down or really say anything when he usually hit on you. No arguments, no fighting. Nothing," Michael continues to speak and Dana gets angry even though she's deep down she really shouldn't. "And Nicole was talking about some guy she added onto her cute lip chart. We were kinda waiting for a really rude, sarcastic thing to come from your side, and well, nothing came up."

"Is that all I'm good for, Michael?" she questions snapping, at her best friend with narrowed eyes.

"No, no," he replies quickly, hands out in surrender. "I'm not saying that's all you're worth. But I'm just looking out for you," his tone goes softer when he scoots over just a little. "I'm being honest here when I say that things haven't been normal with you for the past couple of days. When Logan got us lost, everyone came down on him but you didn't. Sure, we get a new tradition out of it but I find it hard to believe that you didn't want Logan's head on a platter – well, not literally but you know what I mean. Even Quinn got in on the action so I find it weird that you weren't the first one to dive in and stuff. That's all."

"You were closer and you smacked him upside the head. It spoke enough for me."

"Dana, the school doesn't call you Danger Cruz for nothing," Michael debates, casting a sideways glance at her. "You could have side stepped me and pretty much Indian Burned the guy if you were really okay."

Rubbing her temples, she shuts her eyes and pushing a sigh between her lips. This is what she gets for having an undercover, undiscovered psychic for a best dude friend.

"What did I say about going into my brain?"

"Uh," Michael laughs, lightly. "Dust my feet on the carpet before entering and wear a helmet."

"Ha ha," comes the dry response, automatic and resting on the tip of her tongue. "Hilarious."

"Look, feel free to rant and I'll just listen. No talking here," he grins and his dark brown eyes glint with the honest-to-God, absolute truth. "And hey, if you feel like letting someone have it and Logan or Nicole's not close enough, I'm your dude."

She'll tell Michael everything.

She'll tell him what he doesn't already know right down to the fact that her ass is headed out of PCA all way across the country to New York and then across the Atlantic to France. Dana's going to tell him how angry she is.

Dana pulls on a loose thread on Zoey's pink comforter because it's distracting. But she pulls on it a little too hard and nothing there's absolutely nothing to distract from the ugly truth.

"Okay, I'll talk."

"Lay it on me."

"Fine," Dana says firmly, and looks Michael in the eye because she's pretty sure she has _everything_ to lose. "I'm leaving PCA because I'm moving with my mom and little brother to New York and then I'm leaving for France. I'm starting my ninth grade year at some fancy, prissy French boarding school because of a stupid European Exchange Program," the slight tremor in her voice sounds loud even though it's silent in the room. "Michael, I'm leaving PCA. For good."

His eyes are wide, the surprise written all over his face can be seen with a large font and the shock in aforementioned eyes can be viewable in high definition while Michael's mouth forms into an 'o' shape.

"Holy crap," and he repeats that last phase because it's sinking in for him yet. "Wait, you're leaving as in never setting foot on this campus again?"

"I'm pretty sure I didn't stutter over what I just said."

"Wow. I'm kind of wishing you did stutter," Michael rubs the back of his neck and Dana looks downward at her legs crossed Indian style. "Straight up, that was too thick. Even for me to handle."

There's a blurred lines and blurred colours all blending together. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair.

"Michael," she calls, and all the while her heads screams, _Big girls don't break. Big girls don't cry_. A sick sense of déjà vu washes over her when her voice cracks underneath the tough exterior and there's a familiar wetness on her cheeks.

"Yeah?" he replies, being the receptive gentle guy that she knows him as.

Dana sniffles, using her hoodie sleeve as a futile attempt to stop crying but fuck, it's not working. So she stops fighting and for once, in her life shows how she is on the inside: weak, fragile, and totally helpless. It's like she's been emotionally stripped and now she stands bare naked as a spectacle for all to see. Dana wants her goddamn emotional clothes back.

Hear that World? Dana Cruz concedes defeat.

"If you tell anyone, I'm," she sniffles again, and hiccups. " – crying a river here, I'll take the murder sentence beforehand and kill you."

Nodding, Michael offers her his outstretched arms and Dana falls into them because she'll really miss his hugs, "I got you, Dana. Loud and clear."

.

.

.

"When?" Zoey demands out of the clear blue sky, walking into the semi-empty lounge aside from the students who walk right through it to get to their dorms. Nicole, as usual, follows her best friend glossed lips formed into a slight frown.

"Excuse me?" Dana inquires, looking up from fixing the back wheels of her skateboard. "When what?"

The blonde sighs almost as if she's angry and wags a sheet of white paper nearly folded in thirds.

"When were you going to tell us about this _letter_, Dana?"

Dana bristles because it's The Letter, and she snatches it from Zoey's little hands. She folds the already folded paper into fourths and stuffs it in her pockets. It's painfully white with pristine, clear black ink sent all the way from France determining her future and telling her what to do.

And if there's something Dana hates slightly more than people going through her stuff, it's the idea of people blatantly instructing her.

She stands, skateboard and screwdriver forgotten, to meet her roommates at eye level.

"You're actually leaving PCA, Dana?" the brunette asks. It's the quietest Nicole has ever been. Dana breaks her gaze with Zoey to meet Nicole's sad one – why the hell does _she_ care? Friendship isn't their strong point and Nicole will always click with Zoey. Always.

"I told you two not to go through my stuff!"

"I didn't touch anything!" Zoey quickly defends, anger all around. "I wanted some scrap paper and I found _that_," she explains, gesturing wildly before she sends a slender finger Dana's way while the accursed letter in now in her back pocket. " – by the recycling bin. I flipped it over because I didn't want to write on if it was important. All of a sudden I'm reading that you got accepted to some French school and you're leaving?"

"So what if I am?" Dana pushes back, crossing her arms. "You want to spin this around so it looked like you didn't invade my space, right?"

"I was there!" Nicole interjects, sounding genuinely hurt. "Zoey didn't invade anything because you'd kill us, well me. I don't want to die yet because I haven't started my dream jobs as a hair stylist or a teacher ," she adds, sounding serious as if talking about her _Pretty In Pink_ coconut flavoured lip gloss and sparkly purple eye shadow. "And going through someone's stuff is wrong. I know I'd be mad if someone rearranged my makeup and blabbed about my cute lip chart."

"Uh," Zoey says, looking at her best friend. "That actually happened. You know: Logan, webcam and the giant teddy bear. Ring any bells?"

Probably not, Dana thinks with a silent huff. Because something's not right if Nicole has the attention span of a six year old and still manages to get pretty good grades.

"I know. It's my new and improved secret one."

"And you're actually proud of that?"

"Yes, very!" the brunette returns with an enthusiastic nod of her head.

"Nobody really cares about your cute lip thing. Well, you _know_ I don't so if we're done here, I'm going to go back to fixing my board."

"Dana," Zoey calls, and she just wants to run. "You can't intimidate people just to push them away. There might be people who care about you. We're friends. That's what friends do – care about each other."

And Zoey doesn't exactly get the Dana Cruz Seal of Approval to psychoanalyze, picking every nook and crevice of her brain. The blonde sighs and look at Nicole when her bubbly voice drops to an annoyingly pleading one. God, why won't Dana's brain get the fucking _get_ _the hell out of here_ signal.

"Were you even going to tell us?" Nicole asks. "Ever?"

"No. Because it was none of your business what I do, where I go, or how I fucking feel!"

Dana doesn't care about the damn board or the screwdriver she borrows from Quinn.

All she wants to do is brood by herself for a while and hide from the crossfire that's inevitably coming. Not because she's clairvoyant and can see into the future because it really doesn't take a psychic, just common sense and predictability.

Nicole is a walking, breathing megaphone and Zoey just has to be her good-natured self and fucking pry. That's how PCA will know the next morning.

**.**

Run [ruhn] _verb_; to move with haste; take to flight; flee or escape.

**.**

There's a strange comfort Dana takes in the tranquil imagery of the California sunrise when she slips away from Butler Hall to work out at the crack of dawn by running. Usually, Dana's notorious for being falsely comatose on Saturdays so if she's up at seven in the morning than it _must_ be earth-shattering – yeah, no not really.

She just has the insatiable urge to break a lot of shit knocking at her brain. That's all.

A slow orange and yellow-illuminated sky serves as a backdrop when Dana wakes up from the sleep that never is. Focusing on her breathing, Dana's feet pound against the copper and shaped track with the freshly etched into it like a tattoo but still she runs. Thump, _thump_, thump, _thump_. And don't call her a coward. Because she's most definitely not.

Sunrise still mean everyone on campus is in their dorms and stupidly oblivious. Sunrises mean PCA is awake but not enough for the continuous cycle of anger to continue one more day. Suddenly every student in the eighth grade orchestrates her leaving PCA like a warped circus slash pity party, going-away-party-for-forty. And knowing some of the crazy girls at the place she will probably miss, they'll take the _party_ aspect literally. The spotlight is glaring because there are no other slender built, Hispanic descended, curly-haired, tough-talking girls by the name of Dana Cruz.

Attention Whore isn't tattooed on her forehead.

There's throbbing in the back of her claves that seem to seep in and hook around her ankles. But she continues another lap because it's way too early. The stitch in Dana's side feels like an oxymoron – a dull burning in her side.

She's running to escape.

Zoey finds that goddamned letter by the recycling bin and she's really mad because _no one_ goes through Dana's stuff. Absolutely no one.

Her feet still take Dana around – well, honestly, she loses count of the number of laps run – this track again and again. Escape is why Dana runs but fuck, she is not a little chicken-shit. Just means of escaping Zoey's constant hurt and questioning while Nicole is just tearful. Why does Nicole even care? They're not friends. Dana and Nicole's relationship will always be contentious, the soundtrack comprised of raging hairdryers, high-pitched scream and angry annoyed threats.

So, Dana and Nicole will never be friends.

The sky is a full shade of light blue with no cloud in sight so she stops running because PCA is awake.

**.**

Confrontation [kon-fruhn-tey-shun] _noun_; a meeting of persons face to face.

**.**

"Dana, I _so_ have a bone to pick with you!"

Like some joke-of-a-miracle, there's actually a voice that appears in the quad more cringe-inducing than Nicole's continuous blather about the pros and cons of fuchsia. It's Natalie _I think_ _I'm all that just because I'm from the_ _Valley_ Carson. Her burgundy hair is always styled nicely – oh, and she's the one hanging off Logan's pretty nice arm now. She doesn't care but outright tell Dana she does and looking like a raccoon will be the next resort (_hint:_ it's not with really thick, trampy, Natalie Carson looking eyeliner). Natalie Carson is shiny and glorious while Dana is just _ordinary_.

Instantly, Dana lets out a sigh, looks the girl over once and trudges past her because a) it's way too early because she operates in Dana Standard Time – in English that's two in the afternoon and after b) the Heavyweight, get-the-fuck-out-of-my-face comebacks don't quite reach her brain until past noon and c) Natalie Carson isn't worth the energy or the effort. At least not today.

"Dana, stop!" Natalie cries angrily, and grabs her arm. It's Cruz's law in motion: for every unexpected and unwanted touch, there is an automatic verbal massacre.

"Natalie," she yanks her arm from Natalie's manicured grip. She chooses to laugh but it's still bitter like the previously decent aftertaste of her Mango-Kiwi Supreme Smoothie, but Dana's brown eyes are angry. "I really can't be bothered to knock your Prada handbag down your throat today. For once, even though you don't deserve it, I'm giving you a free pass to turn around and walk away until I can't see you."

With her glossed lips in a deep set frown, Natalie's blue eyes collide with brown eyes, the anger in them still in spades.

Oh, so the Bride of Lucifer clearly doesn't get the memo.

That's a damn shame because everybody knows Dana Cruz holds the gold medal for Intimidating Glances, Heat-Inducing Glares and Witty Threats in the Interpersonal Olympics.

"Don't threaten me!" Natalie spits back, hands on her hips. "Really, I honestly don't know what you think you're doing – interfering with mine and Logan's relationship."

"You think – oh, damn," she pauses and can't continue the incredulous tone in her voice. Dana blinks and smirks, setting her smoothie on one of the quad's dining tables because she may need both hands for this. "Wow, Natalie. I always knew the hairspray would give you brain damage. I just didn't think it would be that bad, that quick. Even Quinn may want to know how that can happen."

The redhead's jaw drops and she squeaks like she's been burned.

"Whatever, Dana. You just leave _my_ Logan alone. He loves me and I love him. You can't stand in the way of that special."

Logan Reese doesn't love anybody. Sure, he loves a good reflection of himself, girls with big breasts accompanied by an ass and a brain that will inevitably produce the same grades seen on his report card, but Logan Reese doesn't love anybody. And that includes her because Dana doesn't have anything whatsoever for someone like him. She can't.

Oh, and here's another memo Natalie forgets: Logan Reese belongs to no one.

Here's a memo Dana sends to herself: Stop trying to read the chronic ego case, Cruz. You're bailing PCA. Stop. Cease and fucking desist!

Dana rolls her eyes, "I can't stand in the way of something that isn't there. I'm not a threat to something that will make me with laugh."

"Oh, but you are," Natalie says, even toned. Her voice drops slightly and her eyes never leave Dana's. "Because while Logan was making out with me, he said _your_ name."

The earth's gravitational pull gets stronger and the axis tilts even more now.

All it takes for it to explode, so she's confused than ever but plans to forcefully shoulder bump Natalie Carson quite forcefully when she walks by, smoothie long forgotten.

**.**

Truth [trooth] _noun_; a true or actual state of a matter.

**.**

The first thing Dana does after that whole Natalie confrontation is call Logan to come down to the beach. The truth is the beach is quieter with not that many people when she kills Logan and eventually buries him in a sandbank, Dana will confess while being confess surrounded by the constant reminder of white padded walls but will lament because she almost gets away with the perfect crime.

Instead, Dana settles for the confused, what-the-fuck things running through her head. It's unusually chilly for sunny California and the sensation of the sharp wind breathing across her bare shoulders causes goosebumps.

"See?" he drawls out, smiling. Dana just knows because he's right behind her and the Logan Reese Intuition is getting sharper and more acute. It's scary. It's _insanity_. "I knew you'd come around and want me all to yourself, Cruz."

Wrapping her arms around herself loosely, Dana silently prays she doesn't react to the shiver that goes way deeper than just her spine when she turns around to meet him face to face.

Logan's doing _her_ pocket thing and one day she'll sue him for that.

He's fucking handsome and to make it painfully real to her, he's glowing in that obvious, _I'm_ _hard to resist_ kind of way.

"Don't flatter yourself, Reese."

He shrugs nonchalantly, "So, what's your damage?"

"Next time you want to send your crazy Gucci-wearing girlfriend after me, tell me!" she smiles a smile that is completely hard around the edges, and then forcefully shoves at his left bicep. And she's angry enough to spit out fire. But she's also angry, confused, frustrated – what the hell is Logan doing thinking of _her_? "It's something called courtesy but you wouldn't know that."

Rubbing his now sore arm, Logan glares, "I didn't send anybody after you and since when did Natalie decide that she was my _girlfriend_?"

"Don't bullshit me," she warns because Dana now has no smoothie, has to finish packing her side of the dorm ahead of everyone else and then she has to say something that resembles _goodbye_. The real thing makes it all seems so final and definite. Seventy-two hours seem to feel like the razor's edge and she's about to get cut.

"I'm being honest," he answers, his eyes leaving hers for a second before he explains. "Natalie's not my girl. She never was and I was planning to cut her loose anyway – too needy and clingy. She's hot and we messed around a couple of times but," he smirks and chuckles. " – she just got way too attached. Oh well. "

That sick, twisted son of a bitch.

"You used her."

"She let me," he shoots back at one hundred twenty miles per hour. "And it wasn't that much of a challenge."

Dana's staring into his eyes too long so she forcefully rips her gaze away and looks sideways. Logan's way too close again because those Freckles are back. Sometimes, she wishes them away. Only sometimes.

In other Dana is Completely Stupid & In Denial News, she sort of wants his hoodie.

"So?" Dana questions and the pursed lips and glare is repetitive. Maybe if she glares hard enough, Logan will leave her dreams alone and completely disappear. Lifting her gaze, she clicks her tongue with irritability. "That sort of typical bullshit still isn't okay."

But Logan grins like the Cheshire Cat. "And you're defending Natalie why?"

It's not about Natalie and the fact that she embodies the world _bitch_ through and through.

It's the principle of the thing. Dana may have a strong bitter taste in her mouth when Natalie glances her way. For Christ sake, when Natalie talks Dana wishes she's without ears sometimes. Hell, she may want to grab the girl by the head and make it collide with the floor. But still, it's the fucking principle and they're both _girls_.

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not," Logan says, the wind blowing his hair in all directions softly. "Just stretching it."

"Why the hell do you always think you can get around the rules?" she asks, frustrated. His Houdini Style freckles are in full view and she can't push the blame around.

"I don't get around them. I either break them all the way or I don't because it bores me. Your turn," he says, egging her on. But the time that's passing makes Dana realize it's only two and a half days until she leaves earlier than everyone else. Her dorm room is semi-clean but most of her stuff are in medium-sized cardboard boxes and _all_ of the carpet is visible. A silence falls on them and she looks all awkward and vulnerable when Logan's face changes slightly and his face almost looks like it's concerned. "You cold or something?"

"No," and it comes out so quick, the word almost jumps out of her and bounces. But Natalie's confession is running a marathon in her head right now and Dana hates that she can't force herself to stop thinking about this. So what if her name slips out of his lips while making out with a girl that isn't her. It doesn't mean a damn thing.

"I'm not going to let you freeze out here. I'm a gentleman underneath all of this pretty, you know."

"You?" Dana quips, feeling the corners of her mouth tug into a smirk. "A gentleman?"

"Haha. Very funny."

Allowing a laugh to escape, Dana replies, "You need an excuse to take your clothes off. I'm not throwing my money at you."

"I don't need an excuse when there's a six pack under here," Logan says, his voice all muffled by his black fleece hoodie going over his head. Finally, it does revealing Logan showcasing rarity of wearing a vintage long-sleeved shirt and his favourite pair of jeans that actually doesn't look too bad. It's alright. Maybe. "Here. I like vintage shirts almost as much as my muscle shirts," he adds another loose, off-handed shrug. "Whatever."

"You're being nice," Dana almost whispers, taking the garment from his grasp. Must have a cost of a fortune. "Stop it."

"What?" Logan snickers. "Is it bothering you?"

She pulls her head over the hole. Dana's arms come out at the large sleeves. The fabric is two sizes too big and unusually soft on the inside. And she's actually surprised because Dana _totally by accident_ catches a whiff of soft but quite obvious musk instead of expensive, stupidly flamboyant cologne that gives her a headache from being around it too long and in turn, making her annoyed.

"Yes."

"Oh, in that case," Logan smiles. "It's niceness all around."

"You asshole."

Dana gets a secret kick out of playing Hide and Seek with her smiles.

Logan raises an eyebrow, "Says the poster child for bipolar disease."

"Yeah," she playfully scoffs. "I wouldn't be talking since you have an unusually large head with an ego to match."

It's amicable. It's sort of friendly. There's no body buried deeply beneath a sandbank. There's no blood splatter merged with the grains of sand of the beach. The hoodie is two sizes too big but the musk won't go away and where did those butterflies come from? Damn. They're walking along the beach and it just really wide but they're just walking along the shore because it's just so wide. It's just the two of them – Logan & Dana, not the usually contentious Reese & Cruz.

"Honesty time," she says, smashing the silence that's starting to get comfortable.

"About?"

"You saying _my _name when you basically had your tongue shoved down Natalie's throat. What's up with that? It's Natalie freaking Carson of all people and it's no secret I really want her stand in the middle of speeding highway traffic," her shoe kicks a random sea shells out of her path. "But she's a girl. And no girl wants that sort of crap happening to her."

Somewhere in between Dana's expectant glance his way and Logan's uncharacteristic silence, the stroll stops but they remember to never look at each other because now things are getting serious. So, Dana watches the Pacific Ocean instead, glancing outwards.

"Don't make me say it."

"Say what?"

"That I'm actually interested in you, Dana. Not in the way that I was with Natalie, and truth is, I just hit on Zoey to irritate Chase a lot," Logan confesses and Dana sighs audibly. "I like you."

"Oh."

In those romantic comedies, this is the part where Dana cries all pretty and there's this deep confession of love, and never letting go. And then the beach becomes the ambience of clichéd romance, big kiss and all. Maybe, just maybe, Dana sort of likes Logan in the way that she kicks him in the shins and Indian Burns his forearms because he yanks on her hair just like kindergarten.

He calls her Dana and bends the We're Only On Last Name Basis unspoken rule.

So, she totally snaps it in half and reciprocates.

"I guess, in a way," she pauses, choosing her words carefully while she nudges him in the side. For once, Dana smiles all the way. "I, uh, like you too," and then she frowns slightly. "But god, the timing is totally off, Logan. My stuff is half packed and I'm leaving in three days."

He smirks, glancing in her direction, "So? That's the thing about us. We're rule breakers and don't really care about authority. We have," he racks his brain and snaps his fingers. " – badassocity."

"That's not a word."

"It's a Logan Reese word," he counters, proudly while she sends a deadpan expression. "Give it to the guys who put the dictionary together and I may read it just to see that word in it."

Look closely and there's a shadow of a smile on Dana's face, modeled after the Mona Lisa since she's a woman who knows all too well about _secret smiles_.

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head and holds her right hand up, palm out.

"What?"

"Hand, please," she instructs, face serious. "I'm going to have to hold your hand."

"Are we going out now?"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Reese," is Dana's reply. The only difference is that there's a glint in her brown eyes that gives away the fact that it'll all banter doused in one light hearted joke.

It's bittersweet for Dana but Logan slips his hand into hers anyway, and the fingers interlock.

She's wishing _Tuesday_ never comes around because the truth is Logan's hand feels really good against hers.

**.**

Label [ley-buhl] _noun_; a short word or phrase descriptive of a person, group, or intellectual movement.

**.**

This _thing_ Dana has with Logan is_ not_ a relationship. And she hates the label of boyfriend & girlfriend. Actually, she hates labels and stereotypes all together. But this thing with Logan doesn't need a label because they're not dating.

It's really not a relationship. It's just a lazy Sunday that isn't such a drag.

Just because she kisses him (she can't kiss him on the mouth yet because being Logan Reese's _anything_ is trippy), holds his hand and playfully banters with him as their way of sort of flirting – it's just confusing and all too fast but it's okay because Dana's only a fourteen year old girl. She's allowed to have her head spinning from the butterflies in her stomach when he's around.

Don't question why his arm is around her waist when they're plop on the couch on a Sunday afternoon and her hand is on top of his. The projects, the homework and the sometimes wasteful studying is at a standstill and packing the rest of her stuff so it's done in two days doesn't exactly seem like a party.

"This sucks but you're leaving in two days, Cruz," he says her last name full of slight endearment this time.

"Yeah, so?" she replies, like she doesn't care but she does. "Shut up and let me procrastinate, Reese."

He's playing with her curls and she's weirdly attentive to his heartbeat and she's smiles in that Mona Lisa kind of way.

Just don't ask because there's nothing for her to explain.

It's just another Sunday afternoon.

.

.

.

It's ten oh six in Tuesday morning, and Dana wakes up with the sun's rays in her eyes. She rolls around on her bed landing on her side before prying them open. Did Monday actually happen? Did Nicole and Zoey actually respect her wishes and not throw her a going-away, we're-going-to-miss-you party?

She wakes up expects hear Nicole firing up that hair dryer and the purple and pink walls to be littered with Styrofoam, glittering pink flowers on the walls or the posters of their favourite artist, everything from Nicole's Drake Bell and Backstreet Boys posters to Zoey's Death Cab for Cutie poster right down to Dana's AFI & Green Day posters.

But the walls are just bare.

And yeah, Monday does really happen because she remembers getting a scrapbook of a glittered and decorated cover with Zoey's designer touch. It's sitting on the almost bare desk in loud silence.

"Morning, Dana!" Nicole chirps, bounding with her pink bath robe and wet hair falling around her shoulders. Breezing by her, the brunette hums a happy tone and goes into some force of habit by picking up the hairdryer but Dana's glaring at her and Nicole withers. "Oh, right. Sorry."

She sighs, grabbing her toothbrush and shower supplies.

"Whatever. I don't care."

"Really?" Nicole questions, slightly doing that head tilt thing.

"Yeah, whatever. Fire away."

Because she's leaving today and the rest are leaving on Friday so it doesn't really matter.

It just…doesn't.

.

.

.

It's ten seventeen in the morning and Dana makes a realization while brushing her teeth and her purple electric toothbrush buzzes over her teeth:

The mint is more bitter than usual and when she swishes the mint flavoured mouth wash around from cheek to cheek for sixty seconds, the stinging is so poignant so Dana spits the mouthful down the drain after _thirty_.

"Fuck."

.

.

.

Ten thirty-one and Dana's putting on a black graphic tee and a pair of skinny jeans she never really wears. There are Converses black high tops on her feet and she smiles because of the purple shoelaces. All she needs before she steps out is the routine of doing her light make-up.

"I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of – "

Dana ducks to avoid hitting her head on the bottom bar of Nicole's top bunk to answer her phone because the ringtone gives it away.

"What?"

"Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the lair."

"Shut up, idiot," she says, with a smile threatening to crack through the surface. "Seriously, what's up?"

"Nothing," Logan says, honestly. "Just wanted to get my arguing-with-Dana fix for the last time."

Dana sighs, feeling the sick feeling wash over her and frowns.

"Don't be a downer," Dana mutters, and sighs, slightly combing her hand through her hair because she doesn't believe that her hair should be tied back ever again. Just like her long forgotten decapitated, blonde Barbie dolls, she cuts up hair ties with scissors found in the drawers and then out of force of habit, contemplates cutting Nicole's up for good measure but doesn't. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. We're packing which I find gross but whatever."

She smirks fondly, pressing the phone to her ear, "Lazy bum."

"You know you so want to make out with me right now."

"Too early."

"Oh, you're cold," Logan scoffs, and then softens. "But I like you, so whatever."

She laughs slightly, "I like you too. We'll hang out later."

"You know my number."

"And yet _you_ called me. Hilarious how that works," Dana returns because she has this thing about one-upping people, even guys who aren't her boyfriend. Logan Reese isn't her boyfriend, and soon she'll be wishing immediate death on those butterflies that seem to appear and flutter around in her stomach almost on demand. "Later."

"Later," he replies. Sometimes, Dana decides whether it's sincerity or pity – but it's a semi-alright day, and she's feeling the rare sincerity instead. And he says her name. " – Dana."

"Bye."

And then she hangs up so Logan can hear the dial tone first.

.

.

.

It's ten fifty-eight and Dana is feeling bittersweet even though she still has the freakishly insane talent of masking her feelings. Right now, she just needs someone to talk to and let off her frustration to. Her intended target is Chase right now because she's frustrated with him.

"It's not hard. Just get some courage and tell Zoey you like her."

"I don't know," he answers her question while she sips on a breakfast fruit smoothie consisting of banana, kiwi, strawberry and peaches. It keeps her full for the day until lunch time which is when her stomach feels like it. Chase ruffles his own bushy hair. "I'm kinda scared too. She's my friend and we have something really close going. I don't want to tell Zoey I like her and have it blow up in my face. I don't think I can stand the awkwardness that will kill our friendship. That means more than anything to me right now."

"Tell her," Dana says so seriously it makes Chase blinks those green eyes at her. "Dude, just end the misery and tell her you like her," she smiles, lightly hitting his shoulder with her free hand. "You give the whole puppy thing a new level and it's magnified for all of PCA to see. Might as well have it tattooed across your forehead."

Chase's eyes fill with panic and he nervously laughs. It's sort of adorable the way his cheeks get all rosy and pink when he's nervous, "What? No. Not everybody knows about my crush on Zoey, right?"

Oh, here's another bulletin – Dana Cruz just receives Gold for the patented are-you-for-real, deadpanned expression known as the Stone Face. Complete with raised eyebrow for maximum questioning effect.

"Does it look like I'm hyping this up or something just to trip you out?"

"No," Chase answers, meekly. "Besides, that's something Logan would do. Not you."

"Exactly. I'm just painfully honest. Take it like a man, and deal."

Chase chuckles and shakes his head at her in mock disdain. "Do you get a kick out of kicking people down when they're at their lowest?"

"It's like you don't know me at all."

And they laugh.

Let's settle a small misconception, however, because a lot of bullshit gets thrown Dana's way and she hates having to explain seeing as not only does she hate people, but even more so people with blatant, unadulterated stupidity oozing from them.

Dana never hates Zoey but never really likes her enough to become established friends for a lifetime. That won't happen and Dana will sleep like a baby even with this knowledge, but Dana adores Chase. He's so child-like and innocent. Sure, he has the coordination of a crash test dummy but he's sweet and is just a genuinely nice guy. And he has _really_ pretty green eyes. Just saying.

So, in summary, Dana knows that Zoey is blindly jerking this guy's heart around even though he wears it on his sleeve.

And she absolutely hates that because Chase is now on her top 5 Must Protect Fiercely List.

"Dana, I'll miss you," he grins. "Really. I will."

"This is the part where we hug now," she sighs and smiles the smallest of smiles. "Come here. We're friends and I'll bend my No Invading My Bubble rule. So, come here before I get smart and change my mind, Matthews."

"Yes, Ma'am."

He hugs her, and Dana hugs him back.

The sound of a really large bubble is heard popping and Dana knows it's just her who hears it.

"I'll miss you too, Chase. You have no idea."

So, this is what complete _exposure_ and _vulnerability_ feels like.

.

.

.

It's eleven oh eight and Dana's phone vibrates in her pocket so hard, there's a tingling on the top of her thigh when the phone presses into it.

Pulling the zebra stripped phone, Dana's screen flashes, Patrick's name on the screen and under a text notification: 1 NEW TXT MSG from Patrick. IGNORE or READ?

She clicks the READ option, and frowns.

_hey dee :)  
miss you to death. but this actually reeks of suckage.  
mama's coming down to get you at 12. sry for the short notice. los sientos.  
and i'm graduating the fifth grade tmrw. whole effed up fam is going to be there.  
leaving cali for ny on thurs.  
see u later. love u.  
patrick._

She sighs, replying it with an angry sigh.

_miss you too, kid.  
congrats on graduating. i'll be there.  
yep, this totally has suckage all over it.  
eff my life.  
_

Dana presses the send button a little angrier than usual, stuffs the phone in her jeans pocket, and walks a little more briskly to Schneider Hall.

.

.

.

It's eleven ten in the morning and the sky is blue with the sun high up in the sky.

But she's still walking past the ghost town that is the boys lounge and blinking the tears back and shoving the giant lump in her throat down.

.

.

.

It's eleven fifteen. Room Thirty-Two in Schneider Hall has green walls that are bare and the beds already look like they are collecting dust in between the seams of the three mattresses. There are no words and speedy _I'll miss you's_ and _forget me nots_ because Dana doesn't want to talk.

She just wants to kiss Logan like there's another chance and like there's another tomorrow.

All she wants to do is whisper the pretty little lie of, "See you next year."

Instead, she holds off on the kiss because she's going to pull a Hoover Dam move and the now desolate dorm just overwhelms her, so in a rare moment of honesty and uninhibited abandon, she hugs him and catches that smell – the same smell as the interior of his really cool hoodie.

It's almost a damn romantic comedy – all tragic and corny. Dana won't cry pretty with quiet, delicate sniffling and tears dyed black by her eyeliner and mascara. She can't.

"I'm, um, going to miss you."

He whispers against her curls, "When are you bailing out of here?"

"In forty-five minutes," Dana says, shortly because she doesn't want to cry. "Text from my brother."

"Oh," Logan answers, and breaks the hug a little so he can look at her. He smirks and there's so much nostalgia in it, it's suffocating. She's almost begging him to stop and hate her like it is the beginning. The beginning is so much easier, the middle is a struggle and the end is heartwrenchingly hard. "Keep the hoodie."

"No."

He rolls his eyes and sighs, "Stop being stubborn. Keep my hoodie. Besides, you never really gave it back to me."

"All the more reason to give it back to you."

Reality slaps her like a cup of cold water thrown in her face, and Dana knows that hoodie is tucked away in the duffel bag that gets a little heavier because of the fucking memories.

But she's losing control and it's so scary that it begins to rattle her nerves beneath the surface.

"Look," he says, gently directs her face, hand on her cheek. "If I could, I'd use my dad's money to close down that French boarding school and you could stay. Sucks to admit it, but I don't have that kind of power."

"Is that your attempt at making me feel better?"

She breaks away from Logan completely and looks away, crossing her arms loosely.

Her black nail polish starts to ironically chip away again. Perfect.

"Yes, it is!" Logan cries, frustrated and lets out a sigh, deflating a lot quicker than usual. "Dana, take my hoodie. I'm crappy with speeches and goodbyes so just take the hoodie."

Dana lifts her gaze to look him in the eyes and it's like a safety net in them. Dana actually believes Logan, but ask her and she'll blame it on the fictional alternate universe she's in right now.

"Okay," she answers, short and final, and smiles a genuine smile. "I'll keep my boyfriend's hoodie."

.

.

.

At eleven sixteen, Logan takes her by the waist and presses his lips to hers.

His lips are warm and tastes like really strong refreshing mint. He's caressing the apple of her cheek a little softer with the grip of her frame a fraction stronger, and she's wrapping her arms around his neck a little tighter than usual.

It's the single best kiss she's ever had because it's her _first_ _one_ but Dana will take that to her grave.

.

.

.

The girl's bathroom a few doors from her dorm room in Butler Hall is thankfully empty.

At eleven twenty-five, Dana makes no effort to force the lump in her throat that seems to be growing every second. There's a churning in her stomach that makes her feel extremely nauseous. It's so quiet Dana can hear her own rapid breathing as she hurries into a stall and locks it, curling up into a ball with her knees so pressed against her chest, the air feels like it's sucked right out of the large bathroom.

Dana can't cry pretty. She can't cry and still keep her make-up intact or cry herself to the point to where she's all tapped out like Nicole. Dana doesn't like to interject herself into situations and become hell-bent on finding solutions.

Dana's just herself.

So, she resorts to sitting on the cold, hard linoleum tile floor and being a sobbing, angry mess of smeared lip gloss, tarnished mascara and runny eyeliner.

.

.

.

Eleven twenty-six, and Dana hates the acoustics in here because the quiet sobbing is actually on surround sound when the unseen sound waves bounce off the walls.

.

.

.

Eleven twenty-nine, and she decides to put her emotional walls back up, reapply her mascara and steal Nicole's waterproof eyeliner and act like she doesn't cry it out of her system.

The cold water running from the tap collects under her palms and she breathes in sharply when she splashes it on her face. The sensation is sharp and almost cutting but it feels good and Dana needs that. She dries off, her makeup gone and stares into her reflection.

That circular locket never leaves her neck and Dana's eyes travel back to meet her reflection.

"Big girls don't cry," she berates herself in a whisper like it's an automatic mantra, grasping the porcelain white sink tightly. "Big girls don't break. You're tough."

But Dana _shatters_, and Patrick sort of _splinters_ subtly, so it's okay.

She gets away with shattering, right?

.

.

.

Eleven thirty one, Quinn Pensky stands in Dana's soon-to-be ex-doorway.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'll miss you greatly, Dana," the teen prodigy says with sad eyes and a smile. And then she laughs a little. "And I'm sorry for all the times my Quinnventions may have damaged you or knocked you unconscious."

Dana mutters to herself, "Yeah, me too."

"All joking aside, though. Even though you were a tough person, it was a pleasure to meet you and a privilege getting to know you no matter how short it was. Sure, we were never close friends but I'll think of you whenever we play _Confess or Stress_. I really wish you lots of success in France," is Quinn's sincere reply and Dana's resolve to be cold isn't as strong because for once, her brain says that Quinn isn't speaking Geek-Speak but actual English.

Dana looks at Quinn and says with a shadow of a smile, "Stay weird and different, Quinn."

Quinn nods curtly, "Thanks for that. I appreciate it. Now if you don't mind, I should really continue packing up my belongings."

"Yeah. You go do that."

Shutting the door, Dana glances at the mood ring sitting on her left index finger as the normally dark stone turns a yellow-amber colour.

She won't be taking it off for a while.

.

.

.

At eleven thirty-three, Dana Cruz puts her makeup all over again and her walls go up.

They're not as hard, stony or as cold, but it's enough, she thinks pulling her duffel bag over her shoulder so she can wait for Theresa's dark navy blue minivan at PCA's front entrance.

At least the van's not champagne coloured and ridiculously sterile because Dana can't handle that.

.

.

.

It's eleven forty and Zoey and Nicole approach her.

Zoey sits on the curb and smiles while Nicole follows suit but stretches her legs out at the ankles because of her black and pink shirt and in that typical, fashion-crazy, colour coordinated way, Nicole's pink and white Converses match. Dana will deny this too but Zoey's key necklace and Nicole's non-frizzed hair with her glittery eye shadow is the only piece of normalcy she gets before things start to change.

"I had to help my little brother pack," Zoey explains and then smiles. For once, Dana doesn't want to roll her eyes or say something scathing and sarcastic. "But we're going to wait with you right now."

"You don't have to, you know."

"But we want to," Nicole puts in with a nod of her head and directs a hopeful smile her way. "Because we're friends, right?"

Nothing harsh comes by and Dana draws a blank.

"Sure, Nicole," Dana sighs, trying to smile. She's really trying. Cut her some damn slack. "I guess."

.

.

.

Eleven forty-four strikes, and there's just…silence.

It's the longest Nicole's been quiet. That's the exact time things are flipped around and different.

.

.

.

"Hey," Chase greets when the guys come from and sit by in a circular pattern by that drop off curb.

Nicole's starting to sniffle quietly, Logan's arm goes around her shoulder which makes Dana feel comfortable…sort of, and Michael smiles at her before pulling a deck of cards from the back pocket of his khaki-coloured and baggy shorts.

"Anyone down for a game of President?"

"Okay," Logan says, immediately and takes his arm off of Dana's shoulder to catch the cards still in their cardboard box. "Toss it here."

"Who says you're dealing?" Zoey questions.

Time is running out and Dana's not patient. Especially not today.

"I do, Brooks," Logan replies, making a face at her which she reciprocates. Logan turns his attention to Michael again. "Just give me the cards."

"Oh, for the love of," she mutters and rolls her eyes. Leaning forward, Dana takes the playing cards from Michael and beginnings to deal the cards out. She shakes her head, in the middle of dealing Nicole a card. "God, Logan, I swear you get a sick kick from starting stuff."

"And you love me anyway," he says, proudly, ego inflating.

She looks to smirk at him before looking down to deal the cards, another card going in Chase's direction.

"Something like that."

It turns into a smile and it clicks for the both of them.

The cards are all dealt and the game is ready to be played. Right before Zoey is about to drop her first card, The Question That Will Not Be Asked is ultimately asked because it's _inevitable_.

"What time is it?"

Chase glances down at his digital watch, "Eleven forty-eight."

Crap.

.

.

.

It's eleven fifty-one.

Michael and Dana win because of a weird thing that sort of make it look like a tie, and Zoey ends up in second place. Nicole stuck in the middle and Chase shares second place with his quite obvious crush with Logan getting a crappy hand but no one says anything.

All fifty-two of the playing cards go into their box and end up disappearing into the recesses of his back pocket.

It's quiet except for more Nicole's sniffling while Zoey rubs the brunette's back.

"You know," Dana says breaking the silence because she's starting to hear herself think, glancing at her purple shoelaces. "Just because your pinky nail broke, doesn't mean it won't grow back."

Nobody says _anything_.

.

.

.

Eleven fifty five, and Dana stops counting the cracks in the concrete because they start sprouting branches and it's tiring to keep it going.

So, Dana rests her head on Logan's shoulder. That's easier.

.

.

.

The word goodbye is defined as _a_ _word used to express an acknowledgement of parting_.

They're all standing. At the end of Chase's hug, Dana whispers a really quiet _tell her_ against his ear and watches the almost unforeseen nod with a similarly quiet _okay_. Zoey's hug is nice – nothing monumental or different about it but she hugs back because it's the end. Michael's hug is warm and she'll miss them and so much more because Michael's her best friend and she never understand the concept of a best friend until right now. Nicole's hug is tight and oh god, she can't breathe.

"I'm gonna miss you so _so_ much, Dana!"

"Nicole," she half-wheezes with a roll of her eyes as a force of habit. "I'm leaving, not dying!"

"Oh. Sorry," the brunette apologizes with an apologetic smile and then sniffles. "But I'm seriously going to miss you so much."

They hug again and Dana's ready to pry her off, just in case.

It's eleven fifty-eight.

.

.

.

At eleven fifty-nine, Dana sees it: the dark navy blue van and it honks loudly twice.

Her mother spots her and waves while Dana has to put on a smile that is totally fake. It almost makes her cheeks throb even though it's not that wide. Theresa can't twist her arm to make her wave a hello that is forced as well.

Again, she gently grabs his face and kisses him and makes it count, wishing that the mint taste is imprinted and she'll always taste it. Pulling away, she smiles for real because he does it first. She might as well let Logan have his low-fat cake and eat it too.

"Goodbye, Logan."

"Later, Dana," he replies and chuckles. "I'll obviously get famous, and we'll meet up. Someday."

She smirks and hides another broken smile.

"Yeah. Someday."

And she kisses his cheek, picks up her duffel bag and walks away, her incoming tears _inevitably_ dyed black all over again.

When does Dana trade tear ducts with Nicole?

.

.

.

Dana Cruz leaves Pacific Coast Academy at twelve oh two in the afternoon.

Her duffel bag is a rectangular pile in the back of the dark minivan when she rests her head against the passenger window while Theresa drives.

"How are you, mija?"

"I'm fine."

No, she's not. Because it's not fucking fair to see a clear tear drop and blend into her sleeve. It's not fair the way her chest slowly constricts with every inhaled breath she takes. It's not fair when she tries to keep her vision up with some clarity and it's get blurrier and blurrier from the inside – not because Theresa is driving down the freeway to San Diego.

"Dana?" her mother questions as if walking on the most fragile eggshells. Dana swallows and tries not to look at Theresa. "Who was that guy hugging you?"

Oh, just a guy who goes from her frenemy to her not-boyfriend to…she just doesn't know anymore.

Dana's feeling her chest constrict again.

"He's just a boy," Dana says, and looks out the passenger window. She whispers to herself, praying her mother doesn't hear. "Just a boy."

She really needs her brother right now because Dana's crying over Logan fucking Reese and it's hurting and scary and just downright overwhelming.

This must be what _heartbreak_ feels like.

* * *

**A/N: Ah, yes! Another really long part accomplished. I promise you that the next part will be long – well, all chapters will be long – but definitely not to this extent. I blame my Creative Writing/English teacher for that because he was cool and he's one of the reasons I write so freely with zero restrictions. Know what I mean? Yeah, so this story has exploded and become something more significant and I will not write anything else until I'm done with this one because this is my form of crack right here. I'm so addicted to it. It's always on my mind and I'm always dreaming up new things to put in it for future stuff. **

**My favourite parts to write by far were 23,24, 25 28, and 29 by far. The reason I wrote those parts esp. 23 were to break moulds and that ridiculous Dana/Quinn stereotype that they don't get along because they are "battling" for Logan. In most stories, one turns out to be the perfect heroine and the other becomes the irrational psycho bitch. I can't stand that so I wrote the Dana/Quinn interaction MY way and I'm satisfied with it. **

**The DL relationship, I wrote it as in-character as possible. Some stories have Dana and Logan be this cliché of them falling over each other so bad and quickly, declaring their undying love forever (They're what? 13/14? Someone that age doesn't have a full understand of love yet! A little realism would be nice and refreshing in this fandom) it's cringe inducing. And then they totally make Dana and Logan super nice and soft and all weepy when they're not like that. Yes, they're humans and are capable of emotions but they're not people who like to wear their hearts on their sleeves and show the world how they feel. This is just my opinion – after all, there's freedom of the press so go nuts and write however you want to write but still. I felt those points had to be made. I wrote their relationship way different than most so I hope you'll appreciate that aspect. **

**One months and 15,000 words later, here it is. So leave a detailed review and tell me I didn't waste my time for nothing. Tell me your favourite parts, and lines and stuff like that. I miss those and getting reviews like that would make me really smile when I woke up in the morning. **

**Presley, hope you especially liked it since, in the end, this story ultimately belongs to you.**

**-yawns-**

**Okay, goodnight. I'm crashing…now.**

**Deuces. **

**(This is my new word for goodbye. I didn't make it now though. I just like saying it. Lol.)**

**-Erika**

**PS. I'm planning a Rebecca-centric oneshot that actually really different with an OC that will be way out of my comfort zone to write. Look out for it before the end of the month.**


	4. we looked pretty happy

In our family portrait  
We looked pretty happy  
We looked pretty normal  
Let's go back to that

-_Family Portrait_, Pink

.

.

.

She's only fourteen and Mondays should really be considered illegal.

She's a fourteen year old girl and she's not supposed feel this thing that sort of, kind of feels like a blend of love, melancholy and heartbreak.

"Mija – you need to get up. Patrick's graduation is today," Theresa says, softly, running her fingers through her rough curls because she's a mess of limbs and the rays of the San Diego sun hurt her face, make her eyes feel like they should be closed again, and blinking is a chore.

Dana rolls over, and shields her head with a pillow. "Go away."

Theresa sighs, pushing her hair back and her little black dress is a little askew. "I thought you told me that boy you left didn't mean anything to you. You told me he was just a boy."

"He is just a boy," she lies – one she says every morning. "A _stupid_ boy."

She's holding her tongue because there's a remark way too scathing and she'll choke on the invisible tongue fur so Dana glares at her and combs her hand through her wild curls, pushing her body in a sitting position.

"You shouldn't frown, baby."

"And you shouldn't drink," she whispers to Theresa's retreating back as it dies on her lips because it's too early for stating the obvious and generally being her cranky self in the morning.

Dana misses the sound of a hair dryer in full blast.

.

.

.

"Cruz – what are we?"

Her phone is pressed to her ear, the day after she leaves PCA and comes home. Sometimes, she thinks they're still a thing, and some days Logan's the ex-boyfriend she dumps because she has too much pride and with even bigger rage to match. It's one of those instances in her life where she's angry, sad and confused all at once and she's losing control.

Dana wants her control back.

"I don't know, Reese. Hang up."

She really doesn't know – and her head hurts just thinking about the definition.

"_You_ called me, Dana."

"My fingers slipped, okay?" she sort of lies. It's a half-truth because she pushes the number one button in the left corner in a random act of pushing buttons. The number one button speed dials his number and she's suddenly shrinking on the inside. Something close to anger bubbles up in her chest, encircles her stomach and make her blood accelerate through her veins a little more. "And why would _you_ answer?"

"Because it's you," he says, with _that_ smirk. Obviously, the picturing of aforementioned smirk is freaking automatic.

Shit.

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep her really non-existent tears at bay because her eyes clouding and misting over can mean anything.

"Is that supposed to be your brand of complimenting me?"

"Why? Are you looking for one?"

"Again," she retorts. "You and I don't ride the same brain patterns. Therefore, shut up."

"Make me."

"Fine," she says, resolutely because her rationale is that the quicker a band-aid is ripped off, the less the sting remains. "_I'll_ hang up then."

"I'm going to be in New York, hanging out at my mom's art gallery for the entire summer so I'll take you up on that and end the conversation."

"Not I do it first!" Dana counters back and yes, she's getting some normalcy back.

That short beep signifying she hangs up before he does is the best and worst sound ever.

.

.

.

Sleep won't come.

And when it does, her dreams are full of scenarios of _what ifs_, _should haves_ and _maybes_.

The same fleece hoodie surrounding her with warmth and the unmistaken smell of Logan Reese's cologne doesn't help things.

.

.

.

Dana Whitney Cruz falls asleep soundly somewhere in the limbo that is between Sunday and Monday.

.

.

.

Mondays completely and utterly suck.

She's in a black graphic tee top with a purple skinny belt that is loosely hanging around her waist, a white shirt and black Converse high-tops complete with signature purple laces with doodles lightly done in Liquid Paper and one of those new sort of glittery silver Sharpie markers.

Theresa walks by and slowly stops, her jaw drops.

"Dana, what are you wearing?"

She takes a bite of her Granny Smith apple that is a little aggressive, but she's just hungry. Not annoyed or irritated with this whole suburban façade behind the alcohol bottles she throws out in the trash on a Saturday night.

Sometimes, Dana holds the incredible biting remarks in and other times, she releases them and selects the ones that will cut into her mother's very being deeply as big, thick tears slide down the older woman's cheeks and mat her top eyelashes together.

The look of ill-emotions match in the eyes of mother (sadnessregret) and daughter (rageheartbreak) and it's the only way Dana knows that Theresa is human and not so fucking complacent.

"Clothes."

"I can see that," she replies, and her glossed lips are pursed in a thin line. "But I don't think this is appropriate for an elementary school graduation."

Dana gives her mother's the once over and snorts because she can't talk her mother's seriously.

Call her a bitch but she really can't.

So, she breezes by her mother who is dressed to the nines, catching the scent of perfume that is pretty and sweet-smelling while Dana depends on nothing but she doesn't reek and throws her apple core in the garbage before breezing by her mother again. She doesn't want to ruin Patrick's day so today, she'll bite her tongue harder than ever before and wait for the taste of copper to compliment the sour aftertaste of the apple.

Her mother's grips her elbow and Dana's randomly notes that her grip is slightly longer than she remembers.

"Dana," Theresa says sharply, looking her daughter in the eyes. "You will respect me. I brought you in the world and I can take you right out."

She yanks her arm back and laughs bitterly.

"Mama, _don't_ twist my arm – literally or figuratively."

Theresa sighs slightly deflating, her mouth slightly parts to say something but instead says, "Go get your brother," and it's the only thing Dana does without complaint.

.

.

.

Patrick actually loves Mondays.

But not the ones where he has to shed his t-shirts and cargo pants with the multiple pockets because of the multiple storage space for his candy because it's sugar kick he's on and god, get off his back with the diabetes pamphlets already.

Seriously – not cool.

He hates when his shaggy, now sort of straight (because his hair is possessed and decides to be straighter against the obvious curl) hair isn't falling into his eyes and tamed something called hair product. And his jeans actually fit and don't hang as low as they usually do. Patrick's obvious frown is slightly minimized because the shirt and belt is actually him and he'll try (keyword: try) to wear the blazer that makes his shoulders look boarder. Black vans are on his feet though and he's tempted to skateboard all over the place, hearing the wheels move underneath the earth.

"You look too _proper_, Patrick."

"Ugh," he rolls his eyes and his reflection does the mirror before turning to see Dana forever in her upright position: casually leaning against his doorframe. "I know, Dee – wait, you're actually going like that?"

"Not you too."

Patrick grins, "The clothes are cool. Since most the boys in my class already have a crush on you."

Oh, joy, she thinks, her face a blend of annoyance and disgust. Prepubescent boys that will go through cracked voices, raging hormones and are acne virgins. Highlight of her life.

"They don't know me."

He shrugs with a resolute (haditupto_here_) sigh. "You're technically a high school girl now. For them, that's enough. For me, it's weird. I love you but if I loved you _that_ way – the devil would be waiting in my closet to lead me into hell himself. The whole incest thing."

Dana shakes her head and slightly laughs because his logic is weird and demented.

"You're sick."

"Be glad I haven't changed too much while you were gone."

There's a genuine smile and Dana's just glad that the dimpled, curly-haired, feetie pajamas-wearing little boy hasn't inwardly faded away from the smart-mouth eleven-year-old on the outside.

"Dana! Patrick!" Theresa hollers from downstairs, her slight Spanish accent obvious while her voice carries a little bit of exasperation. "Vamanos! We're going to be late!"

She looks down knowingly at her brother and raises an eyebrow. "You're too clean cut, kiddo."

Patrick glares back at his clean-cut reflection and it's all fake.

He ruffles his hair and shakes his head vigorously so his hair flies and is untamed so his bangs slightly fall into his eyes, just peacefully settling below the arches of his eyebrows.

And then he yanks his jeans with a couple tugs so they're loose and comfortable.

"Okay, I'm ready to graduate, Dee."

"Any of your friends hit on me, and I won't be so nice," she narrows her eyes. "I mean it."

.

.

.

This cannot – under _any_ circumstances – be told to another living breathing soul but today Dana wakes up with a gnawing, knotting feeling in her stomach that feels like she's missing someone a lot.

The déjà vu hits her hard and sends her reeling because she begrudgingly realizes her and Patrick are a cooler, chill version of Zoey and Dustin Brooks. And they're both protective of their little brothers.

Maybe Dana misses Zoey in the smallest fraction or something. Whatever.

.

.

.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I won't rush you, Tess."

Theresa tries to steady her heartbeat, and fiddles with her black clutch. Jack Coleman is not only the best, most understanding psychologist and the sweetest man she's ever given four months of her life to. She wants to do this but she's terrified and the guilt of keeping this relationship under wraps because really, who falls in love with their shrink and then proceeds to keep it from their kids?

It's that pet name that wins her over. He's too good for her.

Usually, she can't stand pet names.

"Jack," she replies, sounding dead serious. She smiles and it's almost genuine. "I will always love Manny as the father of my kids. He gave me Dana and Patrick and for that I will always be grateful to him," her chest is constricting slightly and she's starting to feel wetness form in the corners of her eyes again. "But I'm starting to feel what is happiness again," she stands on her tip-toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips. "I'm not hiding you if you make me happy."

Jack smiles understandingly while Theresa sighs, hearing footsteps descending down the stairs.

"Dana! Patrick! For the love of God, get down here!"

"Christ, Mama," Patrick starts to say in exasperation and then his voice slows down because there's a nice-looking stranger in the house – shit, he forgets the number to the hotline for _America's Most_ _Wanted_. And there's that other number: nine one something. "Uh, there's a stranger in the house. Why is there a stranger in the house?" he fires, and directs a look to Jack. "Dude, you're lucky I can't remember the number for _America's Most Wanted_ right now."

"I'm sorry?"

"Patrick!"

Dana stares at this man with the kindest blue eyes, the dark hair tinged with salt-and-pepper colouring and the evident laugh lines. But he's invading her territory and anyone invading her _anything_ makes her angry and she glares hard because blowing the Invader up with her mind is a bit of stretch.

Fuck. Her. Sideways. (She says it better than Ryan Reynolds in _Blade Trinity_.)

"Who the hell are you?"

"Dana!" Theresa cries, and rubbing her temple. "Oh – dios mio."

Jack clears his throat and offers a hand. "I'm Dr. Jack Coleman."

"Patrick," and he lazily gestures to his sister. "My big sister, Dana," and then he stares down at the hand in front of him before the owner retrieves it. "Our family is so hard that we don't shake hands. In my spare time, I skateboard, set fires, smoke, key the doors of fancy cars, commit hate crimes and slash tires when I'm not down with _surprises_, Doc," his grin is a discreetly menacing with resentful undertones. "Nice to meet you."

Theresa slaps Patrick upside the head and she's smiling on the surface but look closely and the shaking fingers and the slightly tremor in her voice are brought to the forefront.

"Can we just get in the car so Patrick can graduate? Jack's driving."

.

.

.

Just because Jack is all nice with alleged good intentions, doesn't mean she won't walk.

Actually, she _will_ walk.

She needs to use the fifteen minutes to think.

Or block things out sometimes because thinking about certain things, certain occurrences and certain people because it's too weird.

.

.

.

"I'll walk with you – only because underneath the nice doctor act is someone who is capable of slashing a couple throats and probably forgot to register as a sexual offender. Maybe he likes guns?"

Dana smiles down at her little brother, roughly slinging her arm around his shoulder.

"I forgot how much I enjoy ruffling your hair," she says, with a smirk. "But seriously, no more _America's Most Wanted_."

"Okay, but you can't watch _America's Next Top Model_ then."

Patrick – always the wise, intelligent-for-his-own-good smartass.

"Shut up, you imaginary gang banger."

Patrick's eyes glance upward at her, "I wasn't kidding about the setting fire thing."

She lightly shoves at his shoulder and he shoves back with the dimples starting to show in his cheeks.

.

.

.

Theresa closes the passenger door a little harder than usual.

"Look, Theresa – we tried," Jack sighs, blue eyes locking with tired brown ones. "I guess it would be a bad time to tell them that my new practice was going to be moving to New York. And we agreed to move in together."

She can't look at him right now even though the streaks in the window aren't very riveting.

"It's not your fault, baby."

Sometimes, for her own sanity Theresa likes to pretend that one dark night, something evil takes what makes her children intrinsically them and all she's left with are these bitter remnants.

That's not the case, sadly.

.

.

.

Somewhere in between leaving their residences and arriving at McKinley Elementary, the whole Cruz clan (and those who _home wreck_ and _inch_ their way into it) cross paths: Manny and Theresa share air that is visibly _tense_, Patrick leaves to get robed and capped, Gina and Jack are awkwardly the people who have to look from the outside in. Stephanie is all prim and proper complete with her hair in a high ponytail. Stephanie utters a _hey_ with her hands locked in her lap while Dana says a quick, throw-away response while snapping the chewy remains of a gumball she gets on the way from a nearby vending machine.

Evan is the only one who is delighted and is oblivious to this tense shit labeled air.

"Dana – can I sit on your legs?"

"Evan, it's okay," Stephanie says, calming her little brother down. Her hazel eyes catch Dana's eyes and she loudly snaps her gum. It's losing flavor – gross. _Stephanie knows by now_, she notes. _Smart girl_. "Why don't you sit on my lap instead?"

"No!" Evan protests the way a four-year-old knows how – the beginnings of a tantrum.

God, this kid's vocabulary develops quickly. Stephanie's his older sister – not her. _Stephanie_, not her.

Dana feels a light tugging on her hand and maybe rolls her eyes in her head.

"Can I sit with you, Dana? Pleeease?"

Even _she_ doesn't have the heartless capacity to refuse her little broth – half-brother, ahem.

"Okay," Dana complies, and picks Evan up and he situates himself on her bare lap. "Here's the deal: you squirm and move around a lot – you don't sit here anymore."

Evan turns his head so big warm brown eyes blink at her. "Okay."

He turns around and goes back to his childlike world of obliviousness and Dana stares down at him in envy and jealousy.

Oh, to be a kid and be deliriously care-free. She misses feeling like that.

.

.

.

Evan giggles and laughs and smiles until he glows. He claps and squirms and lightly kicks her.

Dana still has on the little monster on her lap.

(She stops minding. For today.)

.

.

.

"Dude," Josh whispers, beside Patrick.

"Get outta here, man," he whispers, because Josh is supposed to be way in the back. "What do you want? Doesn't your last name start with like V or something?"

"Duh, I'm in the back – no one will miss me, but just wanted to tell you," he smiles widely. "Your sister's hot. I think she'll finally kiss me or something before you guys leave."

Patrick's face wrinkles in disgust but he's sort of laughing on the inside.

"I want to say goodbye to you while you have all of your teeth in, you dummy."

"Josh, you can conspire with your partner in crime some other time! Stay in your section!"

Josh opens his mouth to rebut but his eyes widen when Mrs. Burnaby is looking for him so he scrambles away to the long line of fifth graders graduating.

Patrick starts to regret taking that third waffle at breakfast for so many reasons.

.

.

.

"Patrick Cruz!"

They may be the most dysfunctional family but they're also the loudest but the noise isn't leaking through the plaster of stucco of the way too thin walls. It's loose, profanity-free and pride-laced.

And Evan is happily perched on her lap. Still.

.

.

.

She doesn't mean to drift after the all of the fifth grade graduates are called and two hours of her life go by:

She thinks about school which makes her think about PCA and this elaborate French school, she'll be attending in the fall. She thinks about September and ninth grade and how it will be like the awkwardness and frustration of kindergarten all over again.

Dana frowns because kindergarten is the cause of downfall and when she starts to regard people as a general nuisance. Even at a young age, she picks up on the stupidity. So, she kicks down Luke Hansen's sandcastle and kicks him in the shins because she's a girl and girls can't play soccer.

According to that fudge face, and the rule of the playground.

.

.

.

Dana checks her phone situated in the pocket of her skirt and it says, _one new text message_

From: Logan  
(310) 555-9402

To: Dana  
(619) 555-0245

_i'm heading for ny on wednesday, babe.  
get over here. i'm bored ;) _

Keeping her disdain to herself, she lets out a quiet, angry sigh and she finds herself replying.

From: Dana  
(619) 555-0245

To: Logan  
(310) 555-9402

_so? entertain yourself.  
not my fault you're bored, Reese._

"Dana – uh, are you blushing?"

"No," she replies with a snap under her breath and shuts Stephanie up because she's being observant and she should really stop doing things like that.

"But," Stephanie replies, voice hushed. " – your cheeks are pink."

"I'm annoyed. People do turn red when they get pissed, y'know."

She's pissed off because this ceremony is endless and her phone is buzzing violently against her thigh.

"I'm sorry I overstepped, Dana."

(Leavemealone. Leavemealone. _Leavemealone_.)

.

.

.

Dana slips away again because crowds aren't her thing. When will her own mess of a family learn that she doesn't like the half-assed hugs with the _I love you_'s sounding forced?

– not that she'd fish for something like that because Dana learns at a young age that it's sort of useless.

It's getting dark and windy because it whips her curls around and makes them seem even wilder, even rough – her hair almost getting a feral quality to it.

She comes across a playground: a plastic yellow slide that twisted and wound around, a row of silver meticulous monkey bars that would most likely feel cold under her hypothetical grasp. There's the sound of gravel and rocks crunching underneath her Converse shoes with every step she takes toward the three swings.

She essentially settles for the middle swing and starts to lightly _push herself _because she really doesn't need anyone pushing her anymore.

No – she really doesn't. Manny gives up on that too.

.

.

.

In the middle of her light swing session, Stephanie timidly comes by with careful hesitation while Dana grinds her heels in the ground to stop herself.

And then Stephanie inwardly flinches as an unhealthy reflex because Dana's eyebrow goes up in something that is part questioning and part accusation.

"Before you say anything and chew me out," Stephanie says, slowly. "Just watch."

It's like watching the layers of an onion being peeled back until there's nothing left – the pristine, bone straight hair is released from the nicely kept ponytail and she shakes it around until it's all tousled and normal but the wind weaves its way through her dark tresses too and it's like they're _equals_.

Dana will deny this but when Stephanie yanks off her glasses and reveal her eyes and how they sparkle and glint and change colour slightly (_brownslightlyorangeflecksofgreenwhat?)_ under this lighting, she takes a sharp intake of breath when Stephanie takes her glasses and crushes them under her right shoe with a crunch.

"You're freaking blind," Dana says, with a carefree shrug. "I have the grounds to stick my foot out and trip you now," and at Stephanie's confused and slightly insulted look, she makes a face that clearly reads _duh_. "What? Be happy I told you."

"Anyway," the younger thirteen year old (as of April 14th) girl says. "I'm not blind anymore. I had my vision corrected in December and I see 20/20 now. The glasses were just for effect. I decided to get my eyes fixed so I could develop somewhat of a more confident personality but I didn't want to change entirely," Stephanie explains, scuffing the tip of her shoe while Dana wants to leave but something's gluing her ass to the seat. Ugh.

She rolls her eyes. "Really – why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Stephanie pauses to smile, revealing rows of white teeth before she slightly laughs. " – there was this girl in my class, Sierra Tucker. I'm now known for clocking her in the mouth and cutting her lip because she called my best friend a," she sighs. "What's that really dirty ignorant people use to call gay people?"

"Uh, queer?"

Stephanie shakes her head. "No – dirtier."

Dana blinks and answers, "Uh, a fag?"

"Yeah," and she looks a little sick. "That. I just don't like saying it. But yeah, she called my friend _that_. He actually is gay and came out to me. And I don't know – I just felt this quick bubbling rage that I really couldn't explain and before I was aware, my hand had curled up into a fist and had almost found its way to her mouth, knocking on her on her butt. She was bleeding – I mean, not profusely but I drew blood. I got three weeks detention for it."

Pfft, three is soft, Dana muses in her head. What a lightweight.

Dana reaches over, and jingles the chain connecting the swing while the graduation festivities go on.

"Pull up this swing and sit. Now," she instructs and Stephanie's smiling at her – what?

"Really, Dana – you want me to swing with you?"

"Just take it before I change my mind."

Stephanie knows that's Dana-speak for: _I kind of accept your existence now and can't wish you away_ and accepts the swing adjacent to her sis – half-sister.

They haven't crossed _that_ avenue but it's progress.

.

.

.

"Despite how I may feel about you," Dana breaks a silence that seems to go on forever. It sounds weird in her head and even more awkward on her tongue. "You're a Cruz – you're going to cause some bodily damage to one sucker in your lifetime."

Stephanie sighs, her arms lazily hooking around the dull silver chains.

"But," she questions, and her eyebrow furrow together. " – what does that prove? Does it mean that getting a kick out of hurting people is genetic?"

Dana rolls her eyes and this time, it's not her in her head. This girl overthinks a lot. Ugh.

"I believe that if I rid the world of one retarded dumbass by popping them in the mouth, then I feel like everything is in balance."

An inward sigh, more thought processes Dana is trying to comprehend, and three heartbeats later –

"Are we having a moment?"

"No," Dana bites out, shortly. "Don't look into it."

Stephanie laughs and smiles. Her polished shoes lose their shine and her straight hair is even more tousled than her curls even though they're in the same slightly breezy, tumultuous wind.

.

.

.

Jack's car is a cherry red minivan.

It's the coolest, richest shade of red Dana's ever seen on a car and she hates Jack for making her covet that pretty shade of red paint-job on her dream Jeep Wrangler in two years.

It glides on the freeway and she turns her head to the window and it's all fogged over.

"Dana, I'm going to sleep on you," Patrick mumbles, quietly and she gently ruffles his hair this time. "You make a good," he yawns, head on her shoulder and then adds, "pillow."

She turns to him and whispers just as quietly, "I make an even better alarm."

.

.

.

Her Monday is even weirder and awkward. It's different and makes her try to decipher what the hell occurs – Jack, Stephanie, with a pinch of her stubbornness turning against her because a part of her can't really let him go (stupidsmirkcheapexpensivecolognefuck) – in her sleepy haze. Her brain seems to be in shut down mode.

The best moment in her weird, confusing, royally-fucked day is collapsing into her unmade, askew bed. The pillows are big, fluffy and inviting with the overly huge lavender duvet while her limbs lazily hang off the perfectly defined boundaries.

.

.

.

Tuesdays are one of those days of the week that seems to have a mundane quality about it.

It's just on that day Dana actually wakes up less grouchy than she's known for. Tuesdays, for her, mean normalcy.

And to be totally and completely honest, it's the closest thing to satisfaction.

There is no anger build-up in her chest with the feeling of immediate internal implosion that will spawn a chain of events and it will have a direct affect on anyone in her crossfire.

The American Idiot Green Day poster comes down from her lavender and dark purple walls and Dana can see on the floor of her bedroom.

Oh, fuck – there's something that creeps up on her in a surprise emotional attack: one part déjà vu and one part all too familiar nostalgia.

.

.

.

The PCA yearbook is leather-bound and shiny with the school logo on the front.

She's staring at the book, bound with photographic memories and sure, being one of two girls on an all-guy basketball is something she has full & complete bragging rights to but she remembers the scrawl of _goodbyes_, _I'll miss yous_ and with the occasional _Thanks for not pummeling me into the ground because you could_.

Dana sighs, and lightly chucks it at the bottom of her suitcase, pushing it deeper and deeper just like the slight lump in her throat.

She's Danger Cruz for fuck's sake – she's not allowed to care about a yearbook that will remember her through a few pages she can count on her fingers.

But she's also Dana Cruz and she sort of actually cares about that stupid preppie, rich-kid school and really wants the retarded French one to be burnt down.

.

.

.

Her mood ring turns a deep orange which is supposed to be mean _unsettled _and _mixed emotions_.

Quinn's stuff needs to be indirectly invasive.

Dana's starting to get an ugly tan line on her middle finger.

.

.

.

The house is supposed to be hers: Patrick packing in hours of skateboarding with his best friend before taking care of his room with the posters of Tony Hawk, nailed boards along the walls and framed pictures. Theresa is out with Jack out God-knows-where doing God-knows-what and won't be back until God-knows-when.

But the house is looking a little more spacious and her head hurts from just existing in it.

(It takes more effort in the crevices of her head.)

.

.

.

"Mama, you haven't made this in almost three years," Dana points out, eyebrow raised.

Theresa smiles, and it almost reaches her eyes. There's no make-up and she has to be forced to deal with the fact that she's actually admitting something: her mom is actually looking decent and her words are slurring less and less and there are a decreasing number of liquor bottles Dana wants figuratively break because maybe, her mommy will pay attention again when she cuts herself on the glass.

"Well," she dries her slender hands on the hideous-looking beige and dark green dish towel and hangs it over the handle of the fridge. "I just figured we needed to do something that seemed normal. It's been a while and I was happy to cook for you guys."

"Oh."

And the overstimulation of her tastebuds completely short circuits her brain, putting every snarky comment on ice – oh, screw it.

Patrick belches.

Theresa lightly glares at her son through a smile and Dana is just the silent spectator.

He blinks. "What? Belching is part of the circle of life."

"Yeah," Dana deadpans, with a good-natured roll of her eyes. "Disney should sue you for ripping them off, kid."

"Okay, _Lion King_ was epic – and two, I should sue _you_ for getting in between me and the hot sauce."

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.

.

Maybe it's because her mother seems sort of happy for the first time in three years. Or maybe, it's because the dinner is actually pretty good – so good she's sleepy and Patrick lazily sleeps on the couch with a small unconscious, unaware smile on his face.

Dana doesn't know so uh, yeah, go away.

She's groggy and will hurt obstacles – inanimate or animate alike.

.

.

.

It's not a completely normal day but it's close enough.

(Dana never settles – but she's used to it by now.)

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.

.

It's Wednesday and Dana feels more in common with her mother today more than ever.

Jack, her mother's boyfriend, leaves San Diego today for Destination Unknown and Logan, her…sort of boyfriend (nodefintionsapplicable) arrives at New York all at once. What a stupid paradox.

.

.

.

Dana is really starting to believe that she's a little bipolar.

The Pacific Ocean sounds particularly angry and turbulent, crashing against jagged rocks that look excruciatingly painful to fall on. There are pretty French doors leading into a house that is way too pretty and the little girl with innocent brown eyes and the big dark brown curls re-appears in her head again, and begins to angrily kick around the back of her skull somewhere.

_You're stupid, stupid, stupid_, she's hearing in that high-pitched angry five-year-old voice formerly known as hers. And those innocent eyes are angry beyond her five years so she kicks harder at her brain, scratching at her back of her eye sockets – oh, god make it stop.

"I appreciate you coming by. Your father would be happy you were here."

"What?" she says and can hear the confusion in her voice. The Little Girl is still running amuck.

Gina blinks her brilliant green eyes at her, and sets a tall glass of iced tea in front of her.

"Oh, I was just saying that I appreciate you coming down. I was sure you would refuse."

Dana stares at, almost through, the tall glass of iced tea and is slightly transfixed on the clear cubes of ice that float freely and glares at her stepmother.

"I was brought here against my will."

She's seen Snow White for the umpteenth time. The bulk of whatever poison rests in those ice cubes. It's okay because Dana probably knows where to get her hands on some arsenic, but Quinn better not spring any of that inquisitive, studious shit on her.

"I see," Gina says, and shrugs. "This may be my house but the ball is in your court. You're allowed to speak freely because hey—I'd rather you told me the truth than fed me a whole lot of bullshit."

Before Dana can catch her own sense of her awareness, the words are spilling out of her mouth like projectile vomit and she can't control her shaking hands so she hides them. The Little Girl is starting to scratch and claw at her sternum in front of her heart and there's a clenching feeling, she can only decipher as anger slowly fizzing and gathering at the right beneath the surface of her skin.

"I really, really don't like you," she says, and there's bitterness in her voice totally foreign to her. This degree of anger is really strange, like it's going to start oozing from her pores and it's scary because Dana never feels this angry. Ever. Only around her. It's fucked up that Gina can do this to her. "I hate that you did whatever you did and I'm always going to – it's not fair that me and my brother have to deal with your crap."

The older woman sighs, running a hand through her hair and that unfairly beautiful face stares into hers, nodding slowly as if the words register in her head. She's got this light complexion that seems almost flawless like velvet.

"So, you hate me? Is that the gist of it?"

"Like a morbidly obese kid hates exercise," she snaps, in sugarcoated niceness.

Gina looks like she's ready to open her mouth, but shut it and complies. "Fair enough. I'll give you points because it was hurtful, insensitive but truthful and clever."

She's really tire to tire of this Easy Compliance to Curb Divorce Related Teenage Angst shit.

The Little Girl growls in frustration and grips her curls in her little hands, screaming.

Dana narrows her eyes, a slow-building storm of dark brown. "Look, I got most of the stuff from my mom already, so honestly I don't respect any of you. You messed with a married man twice, and my mom took the same man back twice. I will never understand why you felt the need to pull shit like this. But I just came to tell you that I can't like you but I can't fully hate you either. But I don't respect you. I won't," she says, and looks Gina in the eyes. "Ever."

Gina's voice wavers and shakes. "Dana," her eyes are pleading. "Feel free to resent me but please don't group her father in the same category. Please," her voice breaks into a sob. "You're his oldest child and it will destroy him if he loses you completely. It hurts him when he can't reach you the way he used to. I know you still love him."

"You don't know me, lady."

"And you're right – I don't know you," Gina immediately says. "But I know the look of a girl wanting just wanting her dad."

The Little Girl is snickering horribly (_incessantcackling_) in her head – gotta get outta here, walls closing in, seeing white spots – and Dana's glaring keeping the tears at bay and the shaking under control. She's not losing her control.

"Don't analyze me. We're not friends, alright? And," she adds before turning on her heel to leave the veranda with the semi-decent of the Pacific Ocean. "On second thought, I _do_ hate you. I don't have to think about it twice, Gina."

.

.

.

The ice cubes bleed water and make the iced tea taste bitter like urine left to stand in a dirty toilet bowl for too long.

.

.

.

Hear that inevitable bang?

That's the sound of a beautiful designed and expensive vase colliding against a pure white wall.

It explodes and spreads out, leaving shreds of pink and white marbled glass between her and Gina who has big, thick tears streaking her face, eyes holding a look of clear shock, surprise and if she looks into her green eyes deeply enough – fear.

"Sorry," Dana says with a false smoothness. "That was an anniversary present, right?"

The lilies and chrysanthemums fall and the walls aren't so white and painful anymore.

.

.

.

And then Dana runs out of the elaborately designed front door, through the carefully tended front yard with the white and red roses bushes and far far away because she doesn't need Manny.

She runs fast and hard until her limbs beg for mercy, her lungs feel like they're aflame and burns her and her breath feels like it's in a intricate, frustrating game of Hide and Seek with her and she's not in the fucking mood.

.

.

.

There's a hand being gentle and soft in her hair and she's too angry, tired and oh god, there are goddamn tears and her cheeks feels all clammy and tear-stained.

"You know," her mother's voice says. "I wasn't expecting you to have a good time at your father's," Dana stares past her mother and clutches a pillow tightly to her. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did for you to get a different perception of me, I'm sorry. I was selfish in my drinking and that was wrong of me."

"Can I be alone?"

Theresa blinks and nods. "Of course," she smiles with a sense of satisfaction that is totally justified and presses a kiss in her daughter's caramel curls. "Your father's been yelling at me because you smashed a vase?"

"So?"

"Estoy orgullosa de ti," she grins ear-to-ear and crosses to the door, suitcases and duffel bags. "I mean that because that vase was ugly. I love you, Dana."

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.

.

Dana's too tired to slap away Theresa's hand on her cheek.

(The Little Girl retreats away and her favourite place is behind the right side of her brain.)

And then she falls asleep.

.

.

.

She needs sanity—craves it, wants it, fucking _demands_ it.

And lately, she feels like her sanity has packed an imaginary suitcase and hopped the train to Atlanta.

One ring and she's tracing the patterns of her duvet with her index finger.

The second ring and she's breathing deeply and the third ring she's starting to count the number of books that line her bookshelf because yeah, they're not for decoration – _one_, _two_, _three_, _four_…

"What's good? Hey, you've reached your boy, Michael. I'm not around to pick up your call. Either that or one of my siblings is messin' with my stuff again and it's not cool, man," he cuts himself off mid-rant and Dana sort of smiles fondly because it's just _so_ Michael. "Uh, my bad but yeah, if you drop me a message, I'll call you back—beep."

"Hey, so my day has been pretty shitty and you're my best friend, and I sort of, kind of miss you. I went to my dad's and a Danger Cruz moment. Broke a vase, chewed out the stepmommy, got to hang with my half-brother and sister somewhat forcibly and I feel like I want to break something. Share some of your sanity with me – "

"If you are satisfied with your message, press one. If you'd like to re-record your message, press two."

She pulls the phone from her ear and presses two.

"What's up, dork? Tell me about this Karen Franklin chick you'd gotten mixed up with," she smirks because it's a façade and in twisted logic it works because she's not the only with the urge to bang someone else's head against the wall, repeatedly. "Misery loves company, and feel special because I'm the company part so we'll talk later."

Dana sighs quietly to herself and hangs up screaming into her pillows.

.

.

.

Michael calls back.

They talk. They laugh about things that seem stupid. They act like nothing's happened.

"God," she laughs. "I wish I could kick this girl's ass."

Michael laughs back like it bursts out of him, deep and baritone, "You know – you can be my decoy girl anytime, Dana. But for real, we made a good couple for that one month, huh?"

She remembers and reminiscences feeling Michael's lips against hers, and feeling slightly alarmed and annoyed when he kisses her and leaves her feeling hollow but his hugs are warm and inviting. Dana appreciates that quality about him. If people in the world have the same degree of realism as Michael, she probably won't as easily angered.

"Yes. We made the greatest team."

"You know what's weird. I woke up at noon and was like, 'I gotta call my girl Dana today'," he confesses with that typical sincerity. "You beat me to it."

She smirks and rolls over so she's comfortably on the stomach.

"Glad to know that hasn't changed."

It's insanely easy to picture that broad smile as he talks because Michael never frowns.

"Michael?" she calls, letting her real, genuine feelings show for the first time in a while.

"What's up?"

"Just wanted to tell you I missed you," and then Dana warns him and again he just chuckles. Everything is so typical and the walls of PCA surround them. "Spread that around, though and I'll deny it."

"Yes, ma'am."

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.

.

Honestly, it's the best three hours at the end of a really effed up Wednesday.

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.

Dana curses herself for opening that door.

Slamming it in his face would be easier – but _he's_ still _daddy dearest_ and she's a little angry and slightly queasy.

.

.

.

Four hours earlier goes like this:

a whole lot of yelling and screaming in two languages, Manny angrily questioning and Dana angrily answering because she sees no point in denying, Patrick's diminishing respect and an even more growing headache and just when Dana thinks this day can't have more of a _Twilight Zone_ twist – Theresa's intervention is the icing on top of a cake Dana doesn't ask for.

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.

.

Here's Number 197 on the mental list of things Dana will take to her grave:

Dana may be walking around with an undiagnosed case of multiple personality disorder.

Danger Cruz is steely, tough, and doesn't need defense or protection independence is her mantra.

As for Dana Cruz: she's confused and frustrated, even a tad astounded at Theresa's instant maternal instinct. Patrick sends her a sharp, sideways glance because he just knows her so well.

Danger Cruz's armor is tough, and impenetrable. Dana Cruz's armor has chinks in her rusted suit of armor, ready and available for the world to see and that's fucking scary. She may need her mommy more than she realizes.

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.

.

"You," Theresa points in Patrick's direction. "Go upstairs and get ready. Your father wanted to take you out before we leave tomorrow."

"I'm leaving," Dana declares, and starts to retreat to the only place where things make sense and she gets the most solace from feeling her walls shake and vibrate with angry rock music.

Theresa nods in compliance without looking at her. "That's fine. You can go."

"Do I have to go out to dinner with him?" Patrick questions aware his dad is in room, and Theresa lightly shoves him in the direction of the stairs that wind upward. He sighs loudly, and yells over the pounding of angry vocals and roaring electric guitars. "Way to totally steal my Fifth Amendment Rights, Mama! Free thinking person, my ass!"

She'll deal with Patrick's tongue later but right now she's glaring and god, Theresa's so angry.

"Have him home by ten or I swear I'll yank him out of that old diner myself."

"He's my son too," Manny debates and adds angrily. "I will not continue to let you poison these kids against me. I just won't, Theresa!"

Theresa laughs coldly, and it's a little hollow but Manny seems to bring the worst out in her. It's just toxic now, and they're not kids and in love anymore. It's just sad.

"Oh, fuck you," she says, slowly. "And you have a son. Remember Evan," she almost poking his chest, looking him in the eyes. "Remember that maternal instinct is ten times more dangerous than a paternal one. Regardless of whatever Dana did, leave her alone. You are to be her father and nothing else. Patrick and Dana are mine – "

Manny cuts her off, and her fingers itch to go around his neck and just squeeze the life out of him no matter how slender and dainty her hands may be.

"I was only telling _our_ daughter not to go around smashing personal property whenever she feels like it."

That should be applying to spreading seed around too, Theresa quips in her head. She takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of her nose lightly. That vase is too ugly to be displayed _anywhere_.

"I've already talked to her about it," she finds herself staring up into his eyes because Dana inherits them. Genetics can be so conducive and counter-productive sometimes. "Seriously, though – don't pull another stunt like this or I will kill you."

"Is that a threat?"

"Yes," Theresa answers, honestly without hesitation. Patrick strolls back in just as she closes her mouth and she can see Manny trying to hide the frown lines in his face. She hugs Patrick goodbye and discreetly slips a brand new cell phone – it's shiny and a sleek black colour – into his jean pocket while closely whispering. "You're old enough. If anything, I'm on speed dial. Call me."

Patrick glances from his mother to his father, and is envious of the Smells Like Teen Spirit bleeding from his sister's walls.

His mother is The Rock, Manny is The Classic Hard Place and the middle space is too narrow to run –

"Okay, Mama," and he lightly flips his bang out of his eyes. He's _not_ getting a haircut. "Thanks."

.

.

.

Sometimes, Patrick feels like he's perpetual limbo. It's simply frustrating – moving out East to this boisterous, rich place called New York City coupled with the unpaid job of acting as Dana's rationale because it's obvious to her caution is thrown to the wind so many times, it just doesn't have that boomerang effect. And sometimes, he lies and builds perfect façades that are a bit too well done.

Patrick chalks the knots in his stomach to be hungry, the pounding chalks to achieving three-sixties while his brain is probably rebelling against the confines of a helmet, and his heart sometimes landing in his throat simply to adrenaline.

"Alright, buddy," his father says when they pull into the parking lot of an old fifties style diner. "I used to come here way back in the day. I was driving from work a couple days ago, and I remembered it."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Manny smiles from the nostalgia. This is usually the part where Patrick smiles back like he means it but he's out of smile energy but his stomach growls lightly.

"Uh," Patrick says, while cursing his stomach for exposing its owner. "Can't wait."

.

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.

Tick tick tick –

(Patrick is just waiting for the inevitable _boom_.)

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.

He can envision it so clearly while mentally counting the ratio between black and white titles on the floor.

"And the winner of the Oscar," Insert Typical Drum Roll Here. "Patrick Dominic Cruz for his self played role in the completely imaginary movie, _Dude, Where's My Sanity?_"

He'd like to think his defense mechanisms for being there full force.

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.

.

Hey – at least the burger with the really golden and crispy fries are as good as Manny says.

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.

Theresa breathes a sigh of relief when Patrick comes home and swallows the bile creeping up her esophagus when Manny says, "Goodnight, Theresa."

"Buenos noches."

And then she closes the door and smiles tiredly at her son. "I'm guessing you were okay since you didn't need to call me?"

Patrick shrugs, "It wasn't horrible. But it was weird because he was weird going to the diner you used to hang out with in the past."

"Did he tell you that?"

"No – the faded THERESA + MANUEL doodle in faded black permanent marker sort of gave it away. Dana's not awake right now, is she?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Theresa laughs, and presses a kiss in his shaggy hair. "Besides, it can wait. Our flight for New York is tomorrow and you need to rest."

"Goodnight Mama."

"Goodnight."

Theresa watches her son drag himself up to bed with a stomach full of food that seriously can't be healthy for him – and the organic food is sort of expensive.

But it's okay Theresa concedes, plunging her empty living room into darkness.

She's only two doors down with a nostalgic Spanish lullaby in her repertoire while her children sleep.

.

.

.

She's rambling. (Stephanie is – not her because there's nothing she can possibly say.)

"I know we didn't start on the right foot and I just want to tell you goodbye," she's sniffling with her eyes shedding these big, fat tears and her skin turns flushed and slightly pink underneath her light brown complexion. "And I'm really, really going to miss you," Stephanie's sobbing and Dana doesn't know what the hell to say. It's too freaking early to be awake right now. "I—I don't care about the vase and that my mom is really mad about her anniversary present because it's super ugly but I just really admire you and I love you because you're just my sister."

She sighs, and her tongue utterly betrays her.

Because it's the pattern that's just _set in stone_: Stephanie cries and reacts, Dana feigns an indifferent surface underneath her ever-bubbling annoyance and she reacts back just as hard and explosive because that's just the way life goes.

"If I hug you like I really mean it, you need to stop rambling."

(Because she sounds like Nicole and PCA is supposed to be in the recesses of a memory she sometimes wishes she can let go of. God – she's a wuss.)

"Okay."

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.

.

"I'll really miss you, Dana," Stephanie says, hugging her.

"Yeah," she whispers back, quietly. Dana's trying. "I'll try this sister thing out, Steph."

.

.

.

She's looking at him and it's not the same.

It's not the eighties, and they don't dance to _Roxanne_ by The Police and _Love Is A Battlefield_ by Pat Benatar because it's obsolete. They're not nineteen year old teenagers sharing chocolate shakes. Theresa's not a naïve, curly-haired girl anymore with shoulder bearing tops and leg warmers because she's going for emulating _Flash Dance_. And it's just sad.

"So, how are you and Jack?"

Theresa blinks, surprised. "Oh – uhm, Jack is great. I just talked to him yesterday."

Manny replies silently by nodding slowly. The Intercom blares, echoing, _Flight 1645 from San Diego to Jacksonville now boarding_.

"Why would you ask?"

"Because," he shrugs, nonchalantly. "I'm trying to be cordial. I guess you're going to go see your parents when you get to New York."

"Yes. Nick and Cecilia too," she replies, wistfully because she misses them terribly. She laughs, slightly with a smile that Manny sees and smiles too—her smile never really loses that contagious quality about it at least. "I'm the middle sibling so I doubt they miss me too much."

"Anyone who doesn't miss you is crazy."

Oh.

Uh, wait – what?

Is that supposed to be classified under Freudian Slips A Guy Might Regret?

"What I meant was – "

Theresa glances at the carpeted floor and shakes her head. "No, no. Don't look too much into that. I know you meant," she's swallowing the lump in her throat and sighs. "Lo siento. I'm sorry about yesterday. Sure, I'm somewhat resentful of you. I was already on edge about work with my job transfer and the move and when I saw you, I took it out on you," Theresa shakes her head, morosely. "That wasn't right."

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his denim jeans and looks a little sad – like it can't be four years already because it's just unfathomable.

"Things never used to be awkward between us."

"True," Theresa echoes. "But things happened and people changed."

It's a little weird, feeling like she's stripped because a little piece of paper tells her that her name is no longer Theresa Cruz and has to take her maiden name, Theresa _Romero_, again. She's Theresa Cruz since the age of twenty-two and it's her comfort zone. But it's not hers anymore.

"But look," she speaks again. "The marriage didn't work because of damage on both sides but can we start as friends? We were always good _friends_ if nothing else."

Manny grins, relieved, "Oh God, I would love to be friends again. The tension isn't good. We're not married anymore, but you can keep the name."

She's doing that whole blink in surprise thing again.

"Gina, remember?"

"She doesn't use my name. We're married but she prefers not to."

"Then I'm not married to you anymore," she declares, firmly. "She'll wake up and decide to take up your last name one day because she's your wife. It's generous and all, but I can't. Besides, it'll be good for me to get to know myself again as Theresa Romero."

"Fair enough."

"Okay," she smiles at him and extends her hand. "We're friends."

.

.

.

Manny takes her hand, and gently pulls his ex-wife into his fold, and she's slightly shaking, on the verge of crying.

He's aware. He's fucked up. He knows.

"You broke me as a woman, you know."

"I'm – " he starts to apologize again but the cracks on a broken records look jagged and ugly. Manny acknowledges that. "I know," and the black vinyl records cracks a little more. "I'm sorry."

.

.

.

Evan likes to park his four year old butt in the middle of her crossed legs and it's a chore to care.

Patrick and Stephanie play _Cat's Cradle_ with a pink string found in her pocket and he's laughing and she's giggles when the stages gets harder and harder and then the string becomes a bundle of tangles. Then the cycle starts all over again.

"Dana, I drawed you a picture," he says, and his little hand unveils a piece of paper folded in fourths.

"Really? Why?"

Evan's smile grows and he has such pretty, innocent eyes. "So, you can 'member me but you can't open it until you get on the plane because it's a secret. You can't tell Patrick or Steffie," he offers his pink finger to her when he turns he turns his little body around slightly. "Pinky swear?"

She smirks, slightly and curls her pinky around his smaller one before it separates.

"You're pretty badass for a four year old."

Which translates to in Dana-speak: _I'm sort of, gonna kind of miss you_ and that's enough sentiment.

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.

.

"Your mom bailed, huh?"

Stephanie glances at her younger half-brother before writing an X with an empty, hand-drawn tic-tac-toe grid.

"Yeah," she shrugs with a sigh. "I don't know—I guess it's better this way. She most likely stayed away out of respect for your mom," she pauses to counteract Patrick's O. "Minimizes the weirdness."

He's confused, and losing.

Another O is put on the board to block.

"That makes enough sense in her own head?"

"Mhm," Stephanie nods before adding the final X in the last empty box. And then she smiles gleefully while Patrick grimaces. Even her declaration of victory is soft-spoken. "I win, P. Cruz."

"That's clever," he compliments. "The nickname, not the game play."

Okay, the game play is actually cleverer than the nickname. He just doesn't like to lose.

But he's keeping P. Cruz. It's catchy and it's his first legitimate nickname.

"Patrick?"

"Yeah?"

"Call me from New York, okay?"

He scoots over and slings an arm around her shoulder, smiling sadly. "You know I will."

.

.

.

"Take care of yourself in New York," Manny says to his two children while Stephanie holds on to Evan's tiny hand. He hugs Patrick first and approaches Dana afterwards. "Dana, I just wanted to tell you I love you. I really do, you know."

She's blinking at her father, lips pursed in a thin line and The Little Girl in her head is screaming, _daddy, please please play with me—please!_

"I'll respect your space and not hug you if you don't want me to."

"Dad, I—" she pauses, because her tongue is in knots. She closes her eyes, and gives a masked shrug of indifference because she's leaving San Diego and she never fits into her the city she and her brother are born in anyway. "It's cool. Whatever."

.

.

.

And then he hugs her with a slight grip and she remembers when she learns to ride her black and purple two-wheeler with these sparkly light purple streamers on the handles.

"I'm not scared."

"That's good," Manny replies, adjusting the striped helmet on her six-year-old head. "But I'm not going to let you until you want me to, I promise you. But until you tell me, I won't let you go."

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.

.

Her dad still smells like pine when she lets go off him and grips the handle of her carry-on because they're about to board and fly East.

_Flight 2431 from San Diego to New York City is now boarding_, the loudspeaker says and Evan's little legs are carrying him towards her and his little arms encircle her waist.

"Don't go, Dana!" he sobs.

This kid really has to stop his Tug At My Icy Sister's Heartstrings regime because it's working.

"Look, Evan," she starts to say and he sniffles. Reaching into the pocket of her cargo pants, she pulls a black pen that incessantly pokes at her thigh—well, it's a change from the vibrating phone that buzzes incessantly and just catches her off-guard. "Gimmie your arm."

"Mommy says we're not allowed to write on ourselves," he cautions and hiccups slightly accompanied by using the back of his free hand to wipe his tears away because he's a big boy now.

He's almost five years old – a whole hand old.

Gina's Guide To Parenting is at the bottom of her Things To Care About roster.

Like _lower than dirt_ bottom.

So, she rolls her eyes, scrawling her new New York number on his soft, tanned forearm.

"Wow!"

Evan's eyes widen like saucers and his awe-struck look is reminiscent to her.

"Cool, huh?" she smirks. "Anytime you feel like you need to call me, dial that number. I'll answer it."

"Promise?"

Well, there's the whole Being Cranky In The Morning Issue and –

"Yeah," she hugs the little bugger like she means it because she does. She whispers, more to herself for some twisted form of reassurance. "I love you, kid."

.

.

.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," he answers, walking behind Theresa to the boarding area of the airport. "You?"

Dana looks over her brother and matter-of-factly bites out, "Yes."

"We're both lying," Patrick says, ruffling his own hair and he smiles slightly and hands the lady his boarding ticket while she glares, doing the same. "I know – you hate when I'm right."

"Patrick, turn your telepathy off."

Most people aren't allowed to weave themselves through the nooks and crannies of her brain like that because she's ready to leave San Diego and if her heart can hear this, she'd like it to quit pounding through her chest like a fucking jackhammer (ceaseanddesist). It's very distracting and her clammy, slight sweaty hands (goawayforever) will force her to probably yell at an innocent air hostess. So, yeah, those parts of her body should behave themselves.

.

.

.

"Good afternoon, passengers. This is your captain speaking. It is seventy-five degrees and twelve fifteen – Pacific Standard Time – on this cloudy June day. Please buckle up and we should be arriving at JFK International Airport at approximately nine o'clock in the evening – Eastern Standard Time. Thank you and enjoy the flight. That is all."

.

.

.

She always gets the window seat.

Because then Dana can look out and wonder if there is someone with an even more dysfunctional family tree than yours. There's a eighty percent chance, she'll probably laugh at the person because the attention is of her, fifteen percent chance she'll most likely relate and a five percent chance she'll be indifferent because there's are six billion other people on this blue ball breathing _her_ air.

.

.

.

Dana looks at her at her sleeping mother, looking peaceful.

Patrick whips out the Gameboy and has a look of deep concentration as his fingers fly over the gaming device with a kind of sophistication and determination. He's so beating level ten.

And then she finally unfolds Evan's picture and she almost has to blink: it's in messy crayon and it's a family portrait of him, Patrick, Stephanie and herself. It's a scrawl in disarray but the only way his four-year-old can comprehend them as Patrick has a skateboard drawn underneath feet that are too big for him, Stephanie looks like it's raining books while her glasses are still drawn on her face and a smile in light pink crayon. There's her in black clothing and he makes sure to capture the fullness of her curly hair and smirk, drawn on with red crayon and look, an iPod at her feet.

Smart boy, she notes absentmindedly.

And then Evan draws himself the way he sees himself.

It's all very cute until she notices the crayon multi-coloured house that's stretched and tall and far away with a man that's probably supposed to be Manny with an exaggerated frown and blue coloured tears going down on his drawn face.

In four year old scrawl: sad daddy.

.

.

.

It's the most accurate family photo she's ever laid eyes on.

Damn. It's not supposed to hit her this hard.

A lady comes by with a cart full of soda cans. To Dana, her smile is plastic and fake.

"Would you like anything to drink, young lady?"

She stuffs the drawing in her back pocket, and answers with a typical glare. "No. Go away."

(and she's really doesn't feel bad about acting _normal_. It's the best thing she's done.)

.

.

.

Three hours into the flight that is New York-bound, she's falling asleep with the drawing burned beneath her eyelids, the vision of a good-looking, egotistical, narcissistic boyfriend (maybeyesmaybeno) in her head and the sounds of _Dashboard Confessional_ on repeat.

.

.

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Dana Cruz is still just a fourteen year old girl.

* * *

**A/N: I know – I totally and completely suck for waiting this long but life got in the way and this chapter and story basically consumed me until I finished it. And BAM, here it is. I wanted to split it but I was worried it would mess up the flow so I didn't. I'm sorry I waited five months, but this long is very, very long and lucky for you, all ten chapters will be this long. Or around there. **

**Next chapter will be EPIC. This one explored the entire Cruz family even though Dana is the central character, but yes – chapter five is where the rollercoaster of emotions begins. And there will be a lot of DL next chapter. I'm really inspired so the hoodie, the banter, everything's coming back. In New York style. I want to work on it but I have to go to bed. It's almost midnight here. **

**I've had a pretty shitty week to be honest, so you reviewing and telling me what you thought will really brighten me up. I know most of you don't do this because the majority usually asks for more, but please please PLEASE don't review telling me it was good, and then ask me to make my chapters shorter. That annoys more than anything and I think ungrateful people are SCUM – right up there with baby-killers, people oozing ignorance and having extreme homophobia. **

**Just…no.**

**Aside from that, yeah – review to your heart's content. I will be working on oneshots in the meantime. The perfectionist in me knows that are errors in here but I'm tired. I'll wake up tomorrow and do a proper edit. Please listen to the songs I use at the top to set the mood if you want. I won't make you. If you use another song different from mine, then I'll be curious enough to know what song you picked. S'all good.**

**Okay, uh, goodnight. Hit me up on LiveJournal or on here if you're curious and want to ask questions. I don't bite. Lol. **

**-Erika**

**PS. YES! I just hit four years on here on December 28, and it's my first update of 2010. Pretty much awesome right there. **


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